


These Were Their Crimes

by Moe64



Series: These Are Our Crimes [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Batman AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 54,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moe64/pseuds/Moe64
Summary: In an Alternate Universe where, before making the biggest mistake of his life, Jason Todd makes a phone call instead.Jason Todd doesn't die at the hands of the Joker in Ethiopia. He is simple beaten brutally, tortured, and almost killed.Almost.(Story takes place one year later)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: These Are Our Crimes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647187
Comments: 133
Kudos: 446





	1. A Boy and A Man

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They have been borrowed for the purpose of entertainment and I will do my best to return them unharmed
> 
> The only other major canon divergence, other than obviously the pretense of my AU, is that Tim Drake is slightly younger when his Obeah Man kills his parents. I only did this so that he would have a little more experience within the plot. Cannon will mostly consist with pre-new 52, though I may borrow random bits of story from elsewhere as it fits. Feel free to comment with corrections or suggestions!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later . . .
> 
> The story starts with blood and anger. Because _of course_ it does.

#### October 18th, 2018  
03:24  
Cave, Gotham

The air smells of iodoform and antiseptic wipes. A tray rolled up beside the medical bay cot is cluttered with syringes and broken bits of thread. Several sheets of gauze are thrown about the metal plate or scattered on the ground, each with slightly less blood soaked into it, telling the story of the boy who sat on the table. Or maybe it is the story of the man scowling next to him. 

“I don’t regret it.” The boy spits out the words like they are poison in his mouth, turning his insides sour. The man’s hands still, letting the silence finally shatter around them. He too has been simmering, allowing for a dangerous build up. 

The man finishes the stitches with the same methodical patience he had begun them at, but after he ties off the knot, the man slams the needle onto the tray with dull satisfaction. A couple more blood-soaked cloths flutter to the ground.  


The man opens his mouth and takes a breath. Then, he simply shakes his head and turns away stiffly. 

“Jason,” the man bites off his words. Something is telling him to be careful. Control his anger. “Jason,” the man starts again, just as sharply. “Upstairs, Bedroom. Go.” The man turns to leave. 

The boy, Jason, just snorts. He springs down from the medical bay cot, landing in a fighting stance and balling his fists tightly, allowing the pain of his own nails digging into his palm to flow through him. 

“Sure, B, just fucking walk away,” Jason mutters lowly, unclenching his hands. Jason knows Bruce will hear him and Bruce knows he is meant to. “All you’re good at anyways,” Jason spits after the older man, still turned from view. 

Jason shoves the tray out of his way as he stalks off to the changing rooms. No costumes upstairs. Sure, Jason toes the line, but that rule is Alfred’s. And Jason wouldn’t dream of breaking it. No matter how much of an absolute ass Bruce was being on any given night.

* * *

“Ah, Master Jason. Pleasant night?” Alfred Pennyworth is setting a cool glass of water on Jason’s bedside when Jason emerges from the Cave in civilian clothes. Despite taking an ice-cold shower, Jason is still seething after the night’s patrol. Jason narrows his eyes suspiciously at the older man whose pleasant smile for once does little to soften Jason’s rage.  


“Did Bruce tell you?” He accuses harshly, stalking off to the bathroom to wash off again before bed. Jason didn’t need to wash his face, he washed in the showers in the cave. But he needs to do _something_. He is dangerously close to allowing his rage to evaporate in the presence of the older man and Jason needs his rage. He clings onto with desperation.  


Alfred’s eyes flicker over to him briefly, widening slightly in surprise. Jason glances over, flooding with guilt. Alfred doesn’t deserve this. Jason sighs. Now, out of the sight of Bruce, Jason’s rage is disappearing fast.  


“Sorry, Alfred,” Jason mutters, not sure if Alfred could hear him or not over the running water. He splashes some on his face before turning back to the bed. Alfred has not only placed a glass of water by Jason’s bed, on a coaster of course (Jason almost rolls his eyes), but he has also relocated the various books Jason had strewn about the room back to the bookcase. Alfred even abided to the organizational structure Jason had created, no matter how many times the old man insisted it made no sense. Jason almost smiles.  


“Is there anything I can get you, Master Jason?” Alfred asks, his voice gentler this time.  


Jason shakes his head and climbs into his bed.  


Alfred takes the cue and turns to exit, pausing at the door. “Whatever was said, Master Jason, I’m sure came only from the best intentions.”  


The anger boils inside Jason again, but dimmer and mingled with reasoning that Alfred means well. Jason snorts. “Do words and intentions ever match up for him?” 

Alfred flicks off the lights. “Whatever was said by both of you, Master Jason,” the old man says gently, closing the door behind him and leaving no room for a reply.

* * *

Alfred Pennyworth pauses outside the door and takes another deep breath before descending down the stairs to the entrance to the Cave. With each step, he changes what he is going to say. A rebuke? An apology? Words of consolation? Inspiration? Wisdom? But what wisdom could he offer to a father? Much like Bruce, Alfred had adopted his charge. Always doubting. Doubt mixed with the knowledge that this was hardly what Thomas had in mind when he asked Alfred to take care of Bruce. 

No, Alfred Pennyworth doubted Thomas would be pleased. But Alfred couldn’t help _but_ be pleased. Be proud. He is not foolish enough to believe he could have talked Bruce out of this path he had chosen, but irrational pride always fills him when he looks at Bruce. 

Bruce sits in his chair at the computer, cowl still on when Alfred arrives downstairs. He looks powerful, or he would, if he’d had anything pulled up on the computer.  


“Deep in research, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, making his way over to the medical bay and beginning to gingerly clean up the array of spilled supplies. 

Alfred isn’t sure what he expects as a response. Stony silence? A shout that he was right? Yelling, screaming, anything. Anything, really, other than leaning back in his chair and audibly sighing. 

“What is wrong with me, Alfred?” Bruce groans.  


“Would you like the list chronologically, or alphabetically, sir?”  


Bruce finally turns the chair toward the older man and gave him a look. One that was far less harsh than the butler had expected.  


“I opened myself up to that on purpose, just to be clear. Allowing you to insult me was a form of apology.”  


“Sir, I feel compelled to point out that you have answered your own question.”  


That got a glare. Bruce turns his chair back toward the computer. Alfred sighs.  


“There is nothing wrong with you Master Bruce. And I do not take the insinuation lightly.” Alfred began wiping down the trays and the medical area.  


Bruce doesn’t respond but pauses, signally that he is listening. Alfred continues.  


“I believe you are familiar with the unstoppable force versus immovable object paradox?”  


Bruce snorts now and spins around again in his chair. “So, what, Jason’s the force, I’m the object? I—“  


“Master Bruce,” Alfred cuts in. Alfred never cuts in. Bruce falls silent and the two share a look. After a moment, Bruce cedes the floor with a nod. Alfred straightens himself upright, trying not to take pride in the small victory.  


“You and Jason are far more alike than you give each other credit for. What I am saying sir, is that you are _two_ unstoppable forces.”  


Bruce falls silent at this. Alfred continues cleaning the medical bay, taking his time in gathering all the instruments the two used that night. This time, Alfred can tell it is an angry silence, not like before. He waits.  


“So, what?” He is _very_ angry. Alfred has to tread carefully. “We are inevitably bearing for a head on collision?”  


“Of course not, sir,” Alfred replies sternly. Clear and strong, Bruce seems to relax just a little. Or maybe that was a trick of the light. Alfred takes it as a positive sign anyways and barrels ahead, placing each bloodied cloth into the biohazard waste bin. “There is no such thing as an unstoppable force.”  


Bruce sighs now. “Alfred, I have spent all night solving riddles, I really do not desire to navigate another.”  


“I do not have the patience tonight for riddles either, sir,” Alfred replies tersely. “If two unstoppable forces _did_ exist, I do think it would be preferable if they were heading in the same direction.”  


Bruce is shaking his head. “I cannot compromise my morals and Jason gets closer and closer to the line with every night out. I ground him, he goes out. I talk to him, he doesn’t respond. I yell at him, he . . .” Bruce gestures vaguely. Alfred lets a small smile slip and makes his way over to Bruce, putting a hand on his shoulder.  


“He has not crossed the line yet.”  


“So, what, I should be glad that it will just happen someday, not today?” Bruce is angry again, but Alfred is used to these swings, he feels confident now.  


Alfred gives Bruce a stern look. “I was saying that perhaps your paths are not as collision-prone as you may believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My own bookcase is arranged by the color of the cover. Because who remembers things like names?


	2. A Boy and A Girl

#### October 20th, 2018  
22:47  
A Nondescript but Certainly Decrepit Building, Gotham 

The air is colder tonight. Even without the addition of the windchill that forces the boy to squat, not stand, on the edge of the fourteen-floor building overlooking the dark city of Gotham. The boy has the somber face of a much older man as he looks across the city, eyes peeling back layers of the dark haven in front of him. His gaze lands on a tall bright building shining in the downtown. It is Wayne Enterprise, looking down at the city like a disappointed father. The boy snorts. 

“Don’t jump!” A voice calls from behind the boy. He rolls his eyes, a smile blooming on his face, making him appear more childish. He hops off the ledge and turns toward a figure who has swung up from the fire escape behind him, dressed head to toe in purple. 

“Steph, I thought you weren’t coming out tonight.” The boy lets the statement fall, not asking the obvious question. Even though he couldn’t see Steph’s face, he can imagine her rolling her eyes. 

_“Spoiler,”_ she corrects testily. “And I can do whatever I want, _Tim,_ ” throwing the name like an insult. 

Her tone hints that she is ready for a fight. Tim just sighs. Obviously, he wasn’t in any position to tell Steph that it is dangerous in Gotham at night. Hell, it was dangerous in Gotham regardless of hour. But he couldn’t help feeling a prickle of fear every time he meets up with her out here. Fear, and guilt, that maybe he is encouraging her. 

But there is a difference between what Steph does and what Tim does. Or so the boy tells himself. Tim sneaks around, staying the shadows. Sure, he knows how to fight, but he’s been so good at sneaking around, he doesn’t have to. Tim uses other skills to fight crime. Gathering evidence with his camera. Stealing files. Hacking. What Steph is doing, fighting the bad guys by _literally_ fighting them? That was dangerous. _Too_ dangerous. Right? 

The only way Tim can rationalize everything is if he helps her. That’s what he had done the first time he ran into her. She had been trying to stop her father from committing a crime, leaving clues for Batman and Robin. But she got caught. She escaped from Robin with a well-placed brick. Tim had been following the duo, so when Steph ran, she ran right into him. Together, they hatched a plan to stop Cluemaster and Tim thought that would be it. But Steph came out again the next night. And the one after that, always wanting to help Tim on whatever case he was working on. Or bringing one of her own. 

Tim had to admit, they actually made a really good team. He had started looking forward to seeing her each night. 

“I know that,” Tim says, hands raised in surrender. He tries to shake off the lingering guilt. Tim couldn’t control Steph even if he wanted to. So, teaming up with her was the next best option. Right? “I just meant that I thought you and your mom had that thing tonight. I didn’t expect you.” 

Steph cocks her head but Tim can’t see what expression she wears on her face under her hood. Tim hates that. Steph dresses up in a costume whenever they go out for reasons she is fiercely protective about. It isn’t for protection. Robin and Batman’s uniforms are riddled with armor and protection and fail safes and back-ups. Steph’s is just workout gear sown together. Batman and Robin are fitted with technology but even the suggestion of Tim helping Steph with her costume is seen as an attack. It could be about concealing her identity. But Tim knows who she is. So do Batman and Robin. So, who is she hiding from? 

Tim has a sneaking suspicion that maybe the costume is something more. Something brought Steph out here every night. And Tim doesn’t think he has any power to stop it. 

Steph shrugs. “Something came up,” is all she says. Tim raises his eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. 

“So, did we get the pictures?” Steph asks, not too subtly changing the subject. Tim allows it, smiling. Steph takes the smile for an affirmative. She jumps in the air and whoops. 

“Ha ha. Yes! Alright, so we develop the photos and get them to GCPD. I think the detective on the case is—“ 

“Not yet.” 

“What?” 

“Not yet,” Tim repeats, slower, like Steph is eighty and going a bit dotty. 

Steph narrows her eyes. “Are you going to keep playing coy or are you going to explain?” 

Tim sighs. “I am not being coy.” He waits a second. Steph taps her foot impatiently. “The situation has . . . developed.” 

“Uh oh.” Steph seems to deflate. She pulls her hood down and peels the mask off her face, so it just coils around her neck. Tim shivers, suddenly reminded of the cold. Steph’s bright blue eyes are wide with surprise. 

Tim hands the camera to her wordlessly and lets her take it and flip through the pictures. 

“Is that—?” 

“Yes,” Tim replies. Steph looks up and locks eyes with him. 

“Well, shit.” 

“My sentiments exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I did change a little bit more about Steph and Tim's past to make it fit within the story I wanted to tell. Ah, well.


	3. Two Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is an off-hand joke about suicide in this chapter. I have a dark sense of humor and I often convey this in my writing, but I will always try to warn if there is something sensitive in upcoming postings

#### October 21st, 2018  
01:12  
Wayne Manor, Outside Gotham 

Richard Grayson isn’t _trying_ to sneak into the manor. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself as he closes the door silently behind him. He is sure it is silent. He was trained by the Bat of stealth. The shadow of the night. 

Someone clears their throat behind him. Dick winces. 

“Master Richard,” an airy British voice sounds from behind the young man. Dick’s shoulder’s droop. “I hope you weren’t practicing your stealth skills.” 

Dick laughs, nervously. “Who, me? No, of course not!” Dick tries for another awkward laugh. Alfred continues to stare with the same inscrutable look on his face. Dick tries this time for a smile. Alfred remained unfazed. Things might have been worse than Dick thought. 

“Um, is Bruce in?” 

Alfred gives what Dick could interpret only as a sympathetic look. “Your timing is impeccable, Master Richard. Master Bruce has stepped out for the evening.” 

Dick suddenly can’t meet Alfred’s eyes. Guilt seems to permeate off his body. Dick wants to be mad at Alfred for giving him a hard time when it had been Alfred himself who called Dick here. But he can’t find it in himself. Too much guilt intermingled with that anger and Dick is too tired to sort through it all. 

Alfred lets up a bit. “However, Master Jason is in his room. Where he has remained since yesterday.” 

Dick checks his watch, not like he needs to. “It’s 1 am,” he says. 

Alfred nods gravely. “I see your time Bludhaven has not had detrimental effects on your ability to determine time.” 

Dick gives Alfred a look and the butler stares back without flinching. The two are beginning to find a familiar rhythm that Dick both yearns for and fears. 

“You called me Alfred. I came. Go easy on me?” the younger man begs. 

“It is good to see you Master Richard,” the butler continues, letting a small smile slip out. “Master Jason will feel the same.” 

Dick manages a small smile at the butler in return and begins to head upstairs, careful to avoid the steps that would make noise. Old habits die hard, Dick guesses. 

At the bottom of the steps, Alfred rolls his eyes. _Children._

* * *

Jason’s head snaps up from his book and toward the door, unsure if he has imagined the small noise, a knock maybe, but too quiet to be Alfred. Jason is lounging across his bed with Vonnegut in his hands. He is halfway through the book but he is only registering every third word. He already knows he will have to reread and he is secretly hoping for a reason to put down the classic. 

Jason narrows his eyes at the door. It creaks open and Dick’s head pops in, looking almost sheepish. 

“You alive in here?” 

Jason forces a frown on his face. “What’s the point in knocking if you don’t even wait for a response, dickhead?” Jason flings a throw pillow at the door. Dick ducks dramatically and spins off to the side. 

“You need to work on your aim,” the older boy says with a grin. 

“It was a warning shot,” the younger boy grumbles, a grin of his own spreading across his face. 

Dick picks up the pillow from the floor and cradles it in his chest, throwing himself on the bed. 

“So . . .” Dick starts, hating how awkward he sounds. Dick wants to ask why Jason is sulking in his room, and not out with Bruce. Why he looks pissed, but guilty. Why he is eyeing Dick with a look that was just begging, begging Dick to not ask any of those questions. 

“Slaughterhouse 5?” Dick asks instead. 

Jason looks down at the book in his hands, as if he himself doesn’t even know what he is reading. Jason nods slowly. 

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p.’ Dick considers this. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Dick finally asks. 

“The book?” 

Dick shrugs. “Sure, if that’s what you want to talk about.” 

Jason sighs. “You caught me. I have no fucking clue what this book is about.” 

Dick laughs far too hard for the quip, but the moment allows him to let out a certain amount of nervous tension that had been building inside him. “You and me both,” Dick says with a smile. 

Jason makes a face. “That is not a category that I happily find myself in.” 

Dick has missed this. He hates himself for not visiting more, like he always promises to. He tells himself that since he calls nearly every day, or texts, that it is enough. But sitting here, with Jason now, Dick knows it hasn’t been. Guilt creeps back into him. 

“Alfred called me,” Dick finally says. Jason’s eyes harden and Dick immediately regrets the words. 

“Right. Of-fucking-course. Alfred calls so you come running. Gotta make sure the screw up doesn’t do something stupid, right?” Jason is standing now, pushing away from the bed like it is toxic. 

“Come on, Jason. That’s not—“ 

“Bring in the perfect son, to be a _positive_ influence.” 

“Jason,” Dick’s voice hardens. 

“Fuck off, Dick. You don’t know shit.” 

“That’s why I’m here,” Dick says in a softer tone. But Jason is gaining steam now. 

“Please, Dick. You’re here because you feel guilty you were an actual dick when first met and you’re under the delusion belief that we’re some definition of brothers.” 

Dick sighs and rolls over on his back, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh man, how did this conversation go so wrong so quickly?” 

A little bit of tension rolls off Jason as well and after a beat, he lets out a small laugh. Dick can’t help but think he looks like Bruce for a second. Thankfully Dick isn’t stupid enough to say that aloud. “Did you come in the middle of the night ‘cause you knew Bruce would be out on patrol?” 

Dick grabs his side dramatically. “Oh, low blow.” 

“When was the last time you guys even spoke? Have you told him you enrolled in the Police Academy in Bludhaven?” Jason lobs the questions like grenades, letting out a small smirk when he sees Dick’s face falter ever so slightly. 

“Okay, kettle, pot. I get it,” Dick says. 

Both boys fall into a silence. After a moment, Dick works up the courage again to speak. 

“You know you can always talk to me. About Bruce. About Robin. About anything having nothing to do with either of those things.” 

Jason snorts, but after a moment, he nods. Dick tries not to take it personally that he doesn’t say anything though. One minute passes. Two. Ten. Dick’s eyes close and he is seconds away from falling asleep. 

“Dick?” Jason asks, breaking the silence. his voice is strangely hesitant. Dick doesn’t respond, he just waits. Another minute passes. “When did you know that you had outgrown Robin?” 

Dick forces his breathing to steady, shoving down any knee jerk reaction he is having and focus. Just focus on answering the question truthfully. 

“I didn’t.” Dick says. “Bruce fired me and I was pissed. I went to Clark, well, you know the story. But it wasn’t until I was Nightwing that I realized I had been ready for something more than Robin for a while. I was ready to be a hero in my own right.” 

Jason is silent so after a beat, Dick continues. 

“But it wasn’t easy. And I didn’t go about it in the best way. I cut people out. I was angry and a lot of times cruel. I—“ 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it Dick,” Jason cuts in. “Do as I say not as I do. You and Bruce make quite the fucking pair.” 

Dick lets _that_ go. “Are you thinking. . . Are you thinking about . . . you know?” 

“Jeez, Dick. I’m not fucking suicidal, I’m just thinking.” 

Dick lets that go too. “Did you and Bruce have a fight?” 

“No, Dick. We’re getting along great. That’s why I’m sitting in my room at 1 am on a weekend. Cause Bruce and I can’t get enough of each other’s company.” 

Dick raises his hands in protest. “Okay, point taken.” This was a tricky minefield to navigate. 

Dick waits for a moment but it is clear Jason isn’t going to continue. He’s glaring at the ceiling now. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Dick finally prompts. Jason turns his glare on Dick. Dick just raised his eyebrows, determined to be undaunted. 

Jason scoffs. “Why? You’d just fucking taking his side,” the younger boy mutters, almost unwillingly. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” Dick protests but Jason is rolling his eyes. “Why would you think that?” Dick tries again. 

Jason screws up his face. “Cause you’re just like him. You won’t admit it. But you are.” 

Dick splutters, trying to think of a denial that didn’t sound like just a denial. 

“You are.” Jason states definitively with a glare that cuts Dick’s protests short. “Fucking golden boy,” Jason mutters under his breath. 

Dick had begun to have an idea of what this is about a while back, but he decides to show his hand. 

“Last night there were several John Does dropped off at the hospital with notes of crimes they had committed earlier that night.” Jason’s face turns guarded in a heartbeat. Dick wants to continue but instead he just leaves his last sentence hanging in the air, words caught in his throat. _John Does beaten bloody, beyond recognition. . ._

“If you already fucking knew, then why did you ask,” the younger boy finally snarls out. 

Dick raises his hands, trying to placate the situation, words ready to come now. But then he sees something in Jason’s eyes. Something that is pleading for Dick to just listen. So, he waits. 

Jason folds his arms across his chest. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong. Those men deserved it. Sometimes, the bare minimum just isn’t enough. Criminals aren’t going to just stop committing crime cause we ask them to nicely.” 

Dick raises his hands again. “Woah. There were like, ten excuses in one breath, there. Which one are we going with?” 

Jason jumps up. “ _Fuck off_ , Dick.” 

Dick sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Jason looks dangerously close to throwing Dick out the window and Dick is almost surprised when Jason doesn’t. 

“B taught me a lot, but he doesn’t just get crime alley like I do. He had one bad night there, but that was _one fucking night_. I need to continue this fight in my own way. B can’t control me forever.” 

Dick suddenly feels like he walked in a mine field and he is nervous about any move he makes next. Finally, Dick decides that no move is his best move and the two boys let silence wash over them. Jason finally sits back down on the bed and the tension eases out of the room. 

“So it goes,” Jason finally says. 

“So it goes,” Dick whispers in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never liked Slaughterhouse Five, but I feel like I am in the minority on this.


	4. The Criminals

#### October 21st, 2018  
02:22  
A Fire Escape, Gotham 

“Oracle?” Steph’s voice is riddled with skepticism and Tim tries not to sigh again in frustration. The two have made their way back to Steph’s house and are sitting cross-legged on the fire escape so they wouldn’t have to keep their voices down. 

They had been discussing it slowly throughout the night as they did a simple routine check of the motion capture cameras they had set up at known drop sites over town. The effort proved futile. It seemed like a wasted night. 

The discussion had been one sided, mostly Steph bringing up, and then answering her own complaints. Tim didn’t mind. Her fears were his fears, her annoyance was his annoyance. And it was nice to hear it out loud. 

“I just don’t get it,” she starts again. “Why do we even _have_ to give this to Batman? Or Oracle, or whoever.” A small whine seeps into her voice. 

Tim gives Steph a look and she backs down immediately. “Okay, fine you’re right. We should give this to Batman, but . . .” she pauses, seeming to struggle for words. Tim shifts, knowing where she is going. 

“He’s just gonna kick us off the case,” she finally finishes. Tim couldn’t object. That’s exactly what will happen. Batman will take the case and that will be it. Like a beat cop handing off a big case to a real detective to solve. It irritates Tim more that he is willing to let Steph know, but how can he rationalize the risk that came with the mystery? Him and Steph were simply not equipped enough to take on this big of a challenge. 

Steph doesn’t seem to need Tim to continue with the conversation. “I mean, I know it’s petty but _we_ caught this case. _We_ followed it and _we_ did all the legwork! I get it, Batman has far more training and experience. Blah, blah, blah.” 

Steph pauses for a moment but doesn’t let Tim get a word in before starting again. “He just has no respect for us. We have just as much of a right as him to be out here and he acts like he gets the final say on who can fight crime and who can’t. I mean, who does he think he is?” 

Tim glances up at Steph again and opens his mouth. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steph continued. “You know his real identity. It was a rhetorical question, okay?” 

Steph doesn’t know this. She suspects that Tim knows Batman’s real identity. A theory of hers molded after countless occasions bringing up the subject of the masked man’s civilian counterpart, only to watch Tim barely participate in her theories. Tim was the most curious kid Steph knew, aside from herself. If he wasn’t already curious about something, it could only be because he already knew the answer. But Tim had never told her one way or the other. So, Steph slips this in and watches closely for Tim’s reaction. 

Tim just looks at her, eyebrow cocked. Okay, she doesn’t know what that means. Tim just takes a deep breath and waits patiently. 

“It’s bullshit. He’s bullshit.” Steph’s words are harsh but Tim is still left wondering how much she means them. Steph has this weird need to get Batman’s approval and she is extremely touchy about the fact that he is not willing to give it. Every time she crosses paths with Batman, he would demand Steph go home. He actively bars her from investigations and activities and even Robin’s sympathy isn’t enough to satisfy her need for approval. 

Tim, on the other hand, has no such desires. Instead, he actively works to never cross paths with Batman again. And he too, is touchy about the subject. Steph has learned not to push but she did know that Tim used to look up to Batman and Robin like they were his own personal heroes. But something happened. His parents died. And now he spent his time bouncing around foster homes and fighting crime in secret. 

The two respected each other’s opinions but that wasn’t to say that it wasn’t a point of contention between them. 

“Oh, were you done?” Tim asks after more than a beat of silence. Steph leans over and smacks Tim on the back of his head. 

“Yes, I am done. You can now proceed to tell me that Batman is our only option.” 

“Steph,” Tim sighs. “He is.” 

Steph raises her hands. “Hey, you don’t have to convince me. I agree with you already.” 

“I feel like I have to convince you,” Tim grumbles. 

“Perhaps, young paladin, that is because you feel as if you need to convince yourself.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “It’s padiwan,” he says. Steph frowns. 

“What’s paladin?” she asks. 

“It’s from Charlemagne’s court.” 

“Never seen it,” Steph declares. Tim rolls his eyes. 

“Like, history. Not cinema.” 

“Oh. What’s padiwan then?” 

“That’s from cinema. Star Wars.” 

“God, you are such a nerd,” Steph laughs. Tim looks away, hoping the shadows of the night covered his blush. Steph jumps up suddenly, making the whole fire escape shake. Tim stands slowly after her. 

“I should get some sleep,” Steph declares. “Early morning tomorrow, you know.” Tim nods like he understands, squashing the protests in his mind that it is the weekend. 

“Meet tomorrow? Monet’s? In civvies?” Steph says, already climbing into her window silently. “Then we figure out how to pass along the info to this Oracle?” 

Tim nods, words jamming in his throat. 

“See you, Stalker,” Steph almost whispers, shutting her window firmly behind her. Tim pauses before climbing down the escape, already mapping out the safest route back to his foster home in his mind. Luckily, it isn’t too far. Tim takes one last look at the photos on his camera, reassuring himself that he was right, that he had really stumbled across what he thought he had. A grueling and scarred face stares back at him. 

Two-face. 

Yeah, Tim reassures himself. This is a job for Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad guy announced. Now the fun begins.


	5. Breakfast

#### October 21st, 2018  
09:28  
Wayne Manor, Gotham

Dick doesn’t know how he gets talked into these things. Well, he did know. He was there. At least, he _thinks_ he was. Looking back, the whole conversation with Alfred feels like an out of body experience. 

And now, here he is, bag packed for the week, in Gotham. 

_“The house is more peaceful when you’re around.”_

 _“Master Bruce misses you.”_

_“Master Jason would do better if you stayed around a little longer.”_

Honestly, it was the last one that did it for Dick. Alfred knew it would. He doesn’t relish in playing on Dick’s guilt of how the older boy had treated Jason when he first took up the mask. But the boys had bonded in a way that no one else could ever understand, and Alfred knows that all too well. 

So, Dick is at Wayne Manor for breakfast, pretending like everything is normal. 

“Two creams three sugars, Master Dick?” Alfred asks as he finishes setting the plates down around the kitchen table. Dick glances over, trying to tell if Alfred is making fun of him, and he is. Alfred puts a splash of cream and a single sugar in Dick’s coffee and Dick eagerly takes a sip, trying to force the caffeine directly into his veins. 

Jason, Bruce, and Dick have all been sitting around the table in silence, waiting for someone else to start the conversation. Dick nods his thanks to Alfred, also trying to slip him an accusing glare. Alfred ignores him. 

After a beat, Bruce begins to cut gingerly into his pancakes. Jason rolled his eyes at the delicacy. 

“Dick, it was nice of you join us,” Bruce finally says. 

Dick sets down a bite of pancake he was about to take. “Seriously?” He asks, anger seeping into his voice. Dick isn’t quite sure why he got so defensive so quickly. But it was just the way Bruce _said_ it. 

Jason forces a grin from his face, trying not to take pleasure in the fight that is surely brewing at the table. At least someone will enjoy this, Dick thinks. 

Bruce looks up sharply and then shoots a glare over to Alfred, who is washing dishes and pretending like he can’t hear anything. 

“What did I do, now?” Bruce asks with a sigh. Jason takes another bite of pancake. Okay, he’s enjoying this a little too much, Dick thinks. 

“Is this going to be your attitude every time I come over?” Dick starts in angrily. 

“Every time?” Bruce echoes, putting a false note of surprise in his voice. “Ah, yes, I keep forgetting all those times in the past you’ve come just to have breakfast with us,” he continues sarcastically. 

“I have responsibilities in Bludhaven—“ Dick starts, but stops suddenly. Emotion will get you nowhere with Bruce. Dicks needs to be calm and rational. “You know, I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Dick snarls out instead. 

Dishes clatter loudly at the sink and the three heads snap over. Alfred doesn’t turn around. 

“Maybe I should just leave,” Dick says quietly after another beat of silence. The young man begins to stand from the table, he hasn’t even had a bite and yet Dick misses the taste of Alfred’s pancakes. Not only just that they were amazing, a balance of airily fluffy without being needlessly filling. But they were also just. . . home. 

Bruce sighs, almost in regret. “Dick,” he starts. But Bruce hesitates like he is going to say something more and the younger man pauses, waiting for Bruce to continue. 

There is another beat of silence. Bruce still hasn’t spoken. 

“Stay,” he finally says. “Please,” he adds after a heartbeat. Dick narrows his eyes, but sits back down. Everything has gotten so. . . tense. And complicated. Dick is suddenly reminded why he never comes home. Or comes back. His home is in Bloodhaven now. 

There is a full minute of silence before someone speaks again. 

“So, Jason, how’s junior year?” Dick tries. Jason gives Dick a look that could in no way be interpreted as friendly. Dick knows he has stepped on a mine. This whole house was covered with mines. Dick resists the urge to glance at the clock. 

“Fine,” Jason says pointedly, as if Dick has accused him of something. 

“Good, good,” Dick mumbles under his breath. Why isn't Alfred saying anything? Dick wonders. 

Bruce glances over at Jason too, and Dick gets the feeling he has missed the larger argument that is at play here. His questions are answered when Bruce speaks. 

“I got another note from your teacher last week,” Bruce starts. Jason glares at Dick like he was blaming the older boy for this. Dick really wants Alfred to come over. He can still hear dishes being washed. Jeez, how many dishes did this house have? Actually, Dick doesn’t want to know the answer to that. “She said you missed your make-up appointment,” Bruce continues. 

“I didn’t miss it,” Jason declares. “I ditched it.” 

Bruce shoots Jason a look across the table. Dick’s head is ping ponging between the two. He finally has a chance to eat his pancakes and there is a faint hint of a flavor Dick can’t identify. He knows asking Alfred will do no good, the older man closely guards his recipes lest Dick do something absolutely heinous like try to make any of them. Not that it would do Dick any good to get the recipe either. All he usually had time for in the mornings was grabbing a power bar or, on a good day, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. 

“Someone want to fill me in?” Dick asks. Dick tries not to enjoy the argument as much as Jason enjoyed his. Dick takes another bite. Did Alfred put lemon in these? 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Bruce is saying. 

“Fuck off,” Jason snarls at the same time. 

Dick eats some more off his plate. Finally, dishes stop being washed. “Master Bruce is referring to the continuing education conference the school has set up for Master Jason,” Alfred says, placing the pot of coffee on the table. 

Both Bruce and Jason shoot Alfred looks of betrayal. He ignores them. Man, Dick admires that man. 

Now, though, Dick is beginning to understand. Jason wants no part of the conversation because he doesn’t want to go to college. He barely wanted to go to high school. Bruce doesn’t want Dick’s opinion because Dick himself is a college dropout. Ah yes, the perfect conversation to get in the middle of, thanks Alfred. 

“Well,” Dick tries, feeling like he has to say something. “There’s not really any harm in at least going to the meeting and hearing them out, right?” 

Jason shoots him a look of pure betrayal. “Of course, you’d take his fucking side,” Jason mutters. 

“I don’t see why it’s even such a big deal,” Bruce says, exasperated. “ _I_ went to college.” 

Dick rolls his eyes. “Well, he doesn’t _have_ to go to college if he doesn’t want to,” he adds. 

“Well, of course you would say that,” Bruce dismisses. 

Dick throws his arms up in exasperation. “I give up,” he says. Alfred resumes washing dishes at the kitchen sink. 

The three finish breakfast, simmering in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am vehemently against canon saying Alfred makes bad pancakes.


	6. Coffee and Crime

#### October 21st, 2018  
10:48  
Monet’s Café, Gotham 

Stephanie is running late. It is her mom’s fault. Of course it is. After she left Tim the night before she had slipped into her bedroom, threw off her Spoiler gear, and crashed. 

She had woken up the next morning to her mom banging on the door, demanding to know why it was locked. Steph always locked the door before she went out. That way, she got in trouble for heavy sleeping and locking her door, and not for sneaking out and fighting crime. 

That wasn’t to say she wasn’t in for an argument the next morning. 

“You can’t just lock the door at night, Stephanie,” her mother had complained the next morning, smoking a cigarette while pouring herself a cup of coffee. “What if, I don’t know, something happened?” She drew another puff of smoke. 

Stephanie had been annoyed. Her mother seemed to flip a coin in the mornings to decide whether or not she would care about what her daughter was up to that day and for some reason, it must have landed heads up this morning. Stephanie spends half her time wishing her mother cared more, and the other half wishing she cared less. 

So, this morning, Stephanie had been annoyed. 

“Then I guess something would happen,” Stephanie muttered under her breath. Her mom either didn’t hear her, or was pretending she couldn’t. 

“I’ve told you this before, Stephanie,” Her mother had said, almost to herself. Stephanie didn’t even bother responding. 

“I have to run,” Steph said, biting back any other remark she wanted to make. 

“Fine, whatever,” her mom took another drawl of smoke. 

Steph had stood in the kitchen simmering for a moment. She wanted to say more, maybe have some snappy comeback. But nope, another flick of the coin. Maybe her mother would care tomorrow. 

Steph stormed out the door, slamming it behind her. She could hear her mom call an indignant “hey!” But she didn’t stop. 

“Fuck her,” Steph muttered under her breath. She immediately felt guilty, slowing down to a normal pace. She didn’t go back, though. 

Instead, she is turning the corner to Monet’s. Tim is already inside, she can see through the window, with two cups in front of him. One is undoubtedly a black coffee, the other, a mocha with whipped cream. 

Steph lets out a little grin, and slips into the store. 

“Hey, Stalker,” she says sliding into the seat across from Tim, who is sipping on his coffee with a strange intensity. He doesn’t even look up when she sits down. 

“Alright, this is what I was thinking. I don’t really have any—“ 

“What, no ‘hello’ back?” Steph cuts in. 

That makes Tim glance up and he shoots a look at Steph, who just smiles kindly. 

“Good morning Steph, enjoying your mocha latte?” he asks in a deadpan voice. 

Steph’s grin widens. “Why, it is absolutely delectable thank you for inquiring,” she responds pleasantly. 

“Can we move on?” Tim asks. 

“Yeah, go.” 

“Okay. I don’t really have anything to go off of for Oracle’s identity." Tim considers admitting something for a moment. "Maybe a half guess," he shakes his head, conceding, "she’s good.” 

“She?” Steph cuts in appreciatively. 

“I can’t hack her either, at least not any time soon. I left an encrypted file in the GCPD database, instead so she would find it.” Tim continues. 

“What?” Steph asks, her eyes widening. Then they narrow. “How do you know she’ll find it?” 

Tim shrugs. “I made sure it would stand out. Trust me, she’ll find it.” 

“Is this a hacker thing?” Steph asks. Tim is much better at anything having to do with computers than Steph, though he was still teaching her a lot. But hacking into GCPD? Encrypting a file? That was beyond Steph. _For now._

Tim shrugs. “I guess. She’ll notice.” _Hopefully,_ is what he doesn’t add. Steph hasn’t known Tim to be wrong yet, so she takes his word. 

Steph sits back. She _does_ trust Tim. He might be the only person she trusts. Yikes, that was a scary thought. 

“Okay, so, what? That’s it, we’re done?” 

Tim finally sets down his coffee cup, empty. His lips twitch up in a smile. “With this case, sure, but we’ll find another.” 

Steph is feeling a little defeated at the moment and isn’t sure she wants to get back on the crime fighting train again so quickly. 

Tim is looking at her expectantly. 

“Just give me a minute, I’m still bitter,” Steph says, sipping her mocha. 

Tim sighs. “This was bigger than us, Steph. We had to—“ 

“Alright, I’m over it,” Steph suddenly declares. Move on. That was Steph’s motto. Or, at least it would be today. Tim rolls his eyes. Steph smiles. “What’s next?” she asks. 

“What makes you think I already have a case?” Tim leans back, affronted. 

Steph rolls her eyes. “Please, did you even sleep last night? No way you would be able to hand this off so easily if you didn’t have something else. When did you pick it up? Thursday?" She pauses. "Wednesday?” 

“You know me too well,” Tim grumbles pulling out a file from his bag and sliding it across the table to Steph. 

“This is from GCPD,” Steph observes, opening it. It was a murder. Almost two years old. Returning to the classics. “Did you break in to the GCPD without me?” she accuses. Steph went home early Wednesday night. Tim must have already been planning ahead. _Because of course, he had been._

Tim looks down, glancing away guiltily. 

Steph rolls her eyes. “I’ll let it slide,” she says. “This time,” she warns. 

The two share a smile. Partners in crime. Or crime fighting. Or maybe both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even as a thirteen year old, I couldn't drink my coffee black, my god Tim. Put some cream in there and at least pretend to get calcium. Personally, I started drinking coffee because I thought it would stunt my growth. I suppose Tim started for different reasons.


	7. The Girl in the Tower

#### October 23rd, 2018  
15:06  
Clock Tower, Gotham 

Dick is more than a little nervous. But Jason had insisted Dick should go. Now, he is hesitating outside the door, lifting and lowering his fist as he swings rapidly between knocking and leaving. 

Dick’s hand goes up. What would he even say? 

His hand goes down. He has to say _something,_ though. 

His hand goes up. 

“Are you going to knock?” A voice comes from the other side of the door. Dick freezes. _Crap._

Dick sighs. He’s been caught now. Own up to it. _You have to say something,_ he tells himself. “I hadn’t decided yet,” Dick admits to the door. 

The door swings open and at first, Dick sees nothing there. Then he has to remind himself. _Look down._ Man, he still wasn’t used to that. 

Barbara Gordon stares up at him from her wheelchair. Her face says that whatever words were about to come out of Dick’s chiseled lips would not be anywhere near good enough. 

But Dick Grayson doesn’t say anything. The two just stare at each other instead. 

Finally, Dick opens his mouth but still no words come. Barbara sits, unflinching. 

Maybe it is pity. Maybe it is curiosity. Maybe it is just knowing that this is important enough to push aside personal feelings for one night, even if she doesn’t even know what those personal feelings are. 

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Come in, boy wonder,” she says, pivoting in her wheel chair and turning back into her apartment. Dick relaxes a little, sighing, smiling, and closing the door behind him. 

“Uh, Jay said you found something?” 

“Right to business, then?” Barbara says. 

“Uh no,” Dick back steps quickly. “How are you doing?” 

“Fine, why don’t we just stick to business?” Barbara responds, rolling up to her desk where several monitors are mounted to the wall. There is a wide variety of wires, all color coded and tied with meticulous perfection. 

Dick sighs. Barbara has every right to be giving him the cold shoulder. He doesn’t know why Jason made him come. 

“I was looking through the GCPD’s database—“ Barbara starts. 

“Why?” Dick cuts in. Barbara glares at him. 

“Routine check for cases,” she waves him off like it was stupid questions and Dick supposes it is. In Bloodhaven, Dick resorts to similar tactics to find his cases, unless he happens to catch one while on patrol. 

“Anyways, I came across something weird,” Barbara says, pulling up a case file on the computer and turning to show Dick. 

Dick bends to look at it. “What’s weird?” he asks. 

Barbara stares at him like he is an idiot. Which is actually nostalgic, but Dick is feeling pretty low right now and can’t quite appreciate the sentiment. 

“Well, for one thing, the case number is wrong. This can’t be a GCPD file, the numbers are all wrong and it’s filed under homicide, which doesn’t make any sense because it starts with 1-1-8. Second, you’ll notice that spells B-A-T on your keyboard. Third, the file is way too small to be a homicide, and the only thing in it is pictures. Fourth, it’s encrypted with one of _my_ old encryption codes. Which brings us the fifth thing.” Barbara opens the file. 

“Holy shit, is that--?” Dick asks. 

“Yeah,” Barbara says. “Someone left this for me. For Batman.” 

Dick catches on quickly after that. “Do you know who?” He pulls up a chair and sits down. 

Barbara shakes her head. “IP address was spoofed in the file but I was able to trace the underlying access log for the file to a computer at the public library. One with no security cameras.” 

Dick’s eyes narrow. “That’s suspicious,” he says. 

Barbara looks annoyed now. “I know,” she says. “That’s why I called.” 

Dick sighs. “So, is this person giving us a tip or leading us into a trap?” 

“I know he won’t take my word for it, but I think it’s a tip,” Barbara says. Dick looks over questioningly. Barbara would need to feel pretty confident to give such a definitive answer. “The GCPD has been getting a lot of . . . tips in the last year. Pictures, tapes, evidence. I think this is the same person.” 

Dick raises his eyebrow. “If he hacked the GCPD, he’s got a lot more skill than just taking pictures.” 

“Or she,” Barbara corrects. 

“Or she,” Dick admits, raising his hands in defeat. 

“But you’re right. This guy has skill. He knew exactly how to flag me down, which means he knows about me.” 

Dick shrugs. “Or he knows that Batman has someone checking GCPD database. He doesn’t have to know about you.” 

Barbara looks at Dick like he is an idiot again. Dick almost smiles this time. He’s missed this. 

“Either way, he knows way too much,” Barbara reminds him. 

Dick glances at the redhead. At one point, he was sure he was going to marry this woman. But he messed up. He did that a lot. He has no idea how to even start navigating his way back from the brink. Dick feels like there is an impenetrable distance between them. He wants to have a conversation that isn’t about work, but everything in Barbara screams at him not to do that. 

“He?” Dick manages to say instead with a smile. 

Barbara turns and gives Dick a look. But for a moment, the corners of her mouth twitch up. 

“Shut up and go tell Batman, boy wonder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me or do GCPD files seem _really_ un-secure?


	8. With Friends Like These

#### October 27th, 2018  
00:46  
Another Indistinguishable Rooftop, Gotham

Steph can’t find Tim. She had texted him at the beginning of the night about meeting up but he had never responded. She went to all the places of interests in the file that Tim had given her for their case. She went to all his usual stake out spots, checking two of their motion triggered cameras. She even stopped a mugging on the way. But still no Tim. It is almost one in the morning now and Steph is wavering between being annoyed and being worried. 

On one hand, she always feared this day would come. When Tim would reject her. Say she wasn’t good enough to be out here. She’s only a year older than him. She knows he thinks it, though. She has no training. She relies on Tim way too much for her crime fighting. For intel, for company, for support. But Tim is only 13, what did he know? 

But nothing about Tim says 13-year-old boy. He takes fighting crime seriously, and Steph wants to prove she does too. 

So, when he hasn’t respond to her all night, she immediately jumps to ‘who needs Tim? Screw his approval. Screw him.’ 

On the other hand, though, what they do is dangerous. Maybe, if he isn’t responding, he’s in trouble. Just how much should she be panicking right now? 

They are almost one week into the sixteen-month-old cold case Tim had found. He wouldn’t ditch her in the middle of a case. Steph is at her last stop, Tim’s foster home. She’s only been there once before, in civvies, never in costume. He’d just moved into the home a few weeks prior and was very tight lipped about it. She keeps meaning to ask him more, but she always chickens out. She crouches on the building across the street, trying to get a peek through the windows. Is Tim home? 

“Stephanie,” a deep gravelly voice sends shivers down her spine, making her heart lurch into her throat. 

She spins around, but the shadows of the building she stands on mix with the shadows on the horizon. Steph freezes. _Shit._ Steph still doesn’t see anything for a moment, and then her eyes lock on something moving in the darkness. _Double shit._

“Batman,” Steph says forcing a wide smile. “Funny running into you out here,” she laughs nervously. Steph wishes there was a pipe near her she could casually lean upon and then immediately rejects that idea as stupid. God, why is she like this around him? 

“GCPD has been getting tips on various crimes happening around the city. What do you know about it?” His gravelly voice barks out. After another second, Steph notices Robin sulking behind on the ledge. He gives her a half-hearted wave. 

Steph hides her panic by pretending to be offended. “You’re pumping me for intel?” she asks. “Without even first saying hello?” Steph’s Spoiler mask hides her face and she’s grateful for the layer of protection. 

A third figure lands on the roof and Steph’s mind is now spinning. 

“Who the hell are you?” She asks without thinking. The man is dressed in black and blue and she did recognize him, she just couldn’t place from where. 

“Nightwing,” the man responds with a grin. _Oh, yeah,_ Steph thinks. The caped crusader from Bludhaven. Well, not so caped. What the hell is going on? “Nice to meet you,” he says, sticking his hand out. Steph looks down at it, her mind still catching up. She feels sluggish, her brain struggling to keep up with the scene unfolding before her. Steph takes the hand and shakes it. 

“Wow,” she says. “You’re polite?” She hears Robin snort off to the left of her. 

“Do you or do you not know about the tips,” Batman growls, growing impatient. 

“No, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Steph snaps, glaring at Batman. 

That’s when Steph knows she’s screwed up. Batman’s eyes narrow and Robin perks up, interested. He hops down from the ledge and goes to stand next to Nightwing, whom himself is hesitating. 

“Steph, you just lied,” Robin says, half impressed. 

“ _Spoiler,_ ” Steph corrects testily. That’s all she could think to do. Damn her sluggish brain. She folds her arms across her chest. Steph is suddenly _very_ glad that Tim is not out with her tonight. 

“I am not in the mood for games, Stephanie,” Batman growls. Steph’s anger builds quickly, creating a pressure in her chest, and for once, Steph is thankful for it. The anger takes the edge off her nerves. 

“Well, neither am I,” Steph hisses back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do,” she says pointedly. She stands there, with her arms crossed, waiting. 

Nightwing looks confused. “Aren’t you going to make a dramatic exit?” he asks. 

Steph glares at him. She isn’t sure if she likes this guy. “I was on this roof first.” 

Batman sighs. “Spoiler,” he starts. Steph, Robin, and Nightwing all look at him, shocked. “I need you to tell me whatever you know about this tipster. We think he’s trying to pass us along some information.” 

When Steph doesn’t react, Batman narrows his eyes. “But you already knew that.” 

Steph opens her mouth, looking for a denial. Her Spoiler mask isn’t helping as much as she hoped. The three vigilantes in front of her stare as if they can see right through the thin black hood that wraps around her face and usually shrouds any emotion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” is all she manages. 

Robin looks like he is enjoying this for some reason which makes Steph a little proud. 

Batman and Nightwing look significantly less entertained. 

“Stephanie,” Batman growls. 

“Bad dog,” Steph mutters under her breath. This time, she thinks Nightwing cracks a small smile. Maybe he isn’t so bad. 

“Stephanie,” he starts again. “I need to speak with this tipster. I have to know everything he does about the case.” 

Steph narrows her eyes this time. “Okay, hold on. How do you know _I’m_ not the tipster,” she asks, now genuinely offended. 

Batman narrows his eyes. “Are you?” he asks simply. 

For some reason Steph can’t lie. “No,” she responds. 

“Then tell me who he is,” Batman growls. Steph snorts and looks away. She isn’t getting anywhere with this. 

“Why do you need to know?” She asks instead. 

Batman takes a step closer to her and she tenses. He just stops, shifting his weight to his other foot. _Is.. . is he nervous?_ Steph wonders. 

“He gave us some intel but it’s not much. I don’t know how much you know . . .” 

“Assume everything,” Steph deadpans. 

“I checked out the sight he took the pictures at and the case he was working on, but so far the only connection I have found to Two-Face is the photos he gave me. If he knows anything more, I need to know it,” Batman says. 

For a moment, Steph is simply stunned to silence that Batman had actually shared that much with her. She didn’t think he would ever do that. She’s still trying to convince herself that it just happened. 

“Steph,” Batman prompts, impatient after several beats of silence. 

“Look, I’m sure he gave you all the information he had. He wouldn’t hold anything back,” she says. 

“Not purposefully,” Batman shoots back. “I need to meet with him,” he repeats, stubborn. 

Steph narrows her eyes, folding her arms. “Well I can ask him if he knows anything else but he’s going to say no.” 

Batman narrows his eyes. “Then, let me ask him,” he speaks through gritted teeth. Steph is a little proud of how much she is getting under Batman’s skin at the moment and she wonders if there are any video cameras nearby that are catching this conversation so she can forever remember it. If there are any cameras, Batman probably already disabled them. Steph wonders if Batman _actually_ needs to meet Tim or if he’s just being stubborn. 

“Look, Batman, I was trying to let you down easy, buddy. But he doesn’t want to meet you,” Steph finally says. Like hell is she telling on Tim to Batman. Tim spends half of his time making sure Batman can never find him. She isn’t about to betray him. 

Nightwing actually laughs a little. Robin is hiding a smile. Batman glares at them both. Then he turns his glare on Steph. Steph is immune to it at this point and she holds under his gaze. 

For a moment, Batman doesn’t speak. Steph is sure he is going to insist on meeting Tim. Instead, he turns on his heel. 

“I’ll find him myself,” Batman mutters, firing his grappling hook and swinging from the roof. 

“Bye, Bats!” Steph shakes as she calls after him, but she forces herself to clench her fists. Nightwing follows with a wink and Robin laughs, throwing Steph a smile and going after the pair as well. “Good talk!” 

Once they leave, Steph realizes she is panting for some reason. Her heart is racing, pounding in her chest. She watches as Batman and his two goons disappeared into night. 

“What the fuck, Tim,” she mutters under her breath. 

“You handled that well,” a voice floats from the shadows. Steph spins around, jaw dropping. Tim, the little turd, pops his head up and pulls himself onto the ledge. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steph asks. She stands there, shocked for a second. Then she starts laughing uncontrollably. 

Tim smiles at her obvious pleasure, a little sheepishly, but it’s that small smile that Steph knows so well. “Thanks, by the way,” he says. “For not selling me out,” he continues, hands in his pockets. 

“How long were you there for?” Steph asks between breaths. 

Tim shrugs. “Couldn’t get out right away tonight, Beth was. . . whatever, and then I saw you on the ledge looking into the house so I thought I would sneak up on you. Then I saw Batman.” 

Steph gets control of her laughter. “I wouldn’t sell you out. I know you and Batman . . . well, I don’t know. But I know you don’t want to run into him. So, don’t worry. I got your back.” 

Tim smiles. He can’t meet Steph’s eyes. “Thanks,” he repeats emphatically. 

She rolls her eyes. 

“Alright, enough of this shit,” she says. “We have a case we need to be working on, and we’ve already wasted two good hours,” Steph reminds with a smile. 

Tim grins back. In the dark, it almost looks sinister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And worlds are beginning to collide.


	9. A Mystery

#### October 27th, 2018  
03:13  
Cave, Gotham 

Jason hops out of the Batmobile with a definite step as they return to the cave that night, a grin stretching across his face with almost no attempt to hide it. The movement, more so than the facial expression, throws Alfred a little, which in and of itself is a hard thing to do. 

“Master Bruce, Master Richard, Master . . . Jason,” Alfred greets as the three come into the cave, stumbling in the slightest way as he gets to Jason’s name. Someone who didn’t know the butler better might have missed the hesitation, but Jason glances over, eyebrow raised but grin as bright as ever. It’s the first time Alfred has seen the boy smile in a while. 

“You aren’t seeing things, Alfred,” Dick says with a smile of his own. “Jason’s happy because Bruce got told off by a 14-year-old girl tonight.” 

“Ah,” Alfred says, fighting a smile of his own. “Miss Stephanie, I presume?” He asks. 

Dick raises an eyebrow. Bruce is already walking away to sit at the computer, no reply given. 

“You know her?” Dick asks. “Who exactly is this girl?” 

Jason is the one who answers. “She goes by Spoiler. Her dad is Cluemaster. She put on the mask a few months ago to stop him from committing crimes and she’s been wearing it ever since.” 

Dick’s eyes widen. “She’s out there fighting bad guys? Alone?” he repeats, shocked. 

Jason only shrugs, like he wasn’t seeing the issue. “Bruce yells at her and tells her to go home whenever we run across her, but yeah, I guess. We don’t see her that often,” he says. 

Dick narrows her eyes. “So, what does she do all the time?” 

Jason shrugs. Dick shoots a glance at Alfred. He can tell the older man is definitely understanding his concerns. 

“Well, now we know she has a partner,” Bruce speaks at last, pulling off the cowl. He began punching away at the computer. 

“Partner?” Jason repeats, peeling off his own eyewear. “You think our tipster and Steph are more than just casual acquaintances? The tips started over a year ago, Steph’s only been at it for four or so months,” Jason adds. 

“She protected him pretty fiercely,” Batman replies briskly. Jason nods slowly in response, accepting the observation. 

“She seemed pretty adamant that the tipster wouldn’t have any more information for us, though,” Dick says. 

Bruce hits a few more keys on the computer and Barbara’s face fills the screen. 

“Did you find our informant?” Barbara asks in lieu of a greeting. 

“No,” is all Bruce says. Barbara sighs. 

“I poked around the file a bit more. Enhanced the pictures. I ran a few designs that could be our mystery guy’s tattoo through the database. Nothing. So, we still don’t know who Two-face met with. Except, you know, that the guy walked away from the crime scene of the murder of a known drug dealer a month ago. Still nothing on that front, I guess?” 

Dick is shaking his head in the background. 

“All right, devil’s advocate here,” Jason says. “What if Two-Face is up to, wait for it, nothing? Maybe he was just scoring some drugs?” 

Dick shrugs like it isn’t a bad thought but Bruce is shaking his head. 

“There’s more to this,” he says. Bruce stares intently at the surveillance photos given to them by their anonymous tipster like he’s interrogating them in their own right. 

Dick shares a look with Jason and the two turn to Barbara, who shrugs back. 

“Alright,” Dick finally says, slowly. Maybe they could talk through this. “Joseph Marino, a low-level drug dealer is killed by our unknown tattoo man. Our unknown tipster figures this out by crossing surveillance footage from the sandwich shop on 23rd, and social media posts from the live art protest across the street. Stitches a photo together. Somehow tracks down the guy, follows him, and takes pictures of him meeting with Two-Face. Hacks GCPD, leaves us the evidence, but no way to contact him.” 

“There were a lot of unknowns in there,” Jason says, laying down on the practice mats and staring up at the cave ceiling. 

Barbara is shaking her head. “Maybe Jason’s right. I mean, we haven’t heard any rumblings about Two-Face since the Arkham breakout in April.” 

Dick shrugs. “That’s not always a good thing.” 

Dick sees Jason shift uncomfortably on the mats out of the corner of his eye. Jason hadn’t been back in the field a full month before the breakout, with Scarecrow and Two-Face escaping that night. Dick didn’t hear about it until the next day, on the news of all things. Scarecrow was apprehended the same night and all Dick knew of the story is that Jason was supposed to be benched for the night and yet he found himself sidelined another two weeks after he had been gassed with fear toxin. Dick managed to stay two full nights at the manor while Jason recovered from the worst of it, barely sleeping due to the nightmares. It was the longest Dick had stayed at the manor until . . . well, until now. 

“How did our tipster find our tattoo guy?” Jason asks. 

“That’s the million-dollar question,” Dick sighs. 

Barbara looks up suddenly. “Maybe I can ask him?” she says. 

All four heads turn to her in the same moment. 

“What?” Jason asks. But Bruce has already caught on. 

“You can add to the GCPD file that the tipster originally contacted us through,” he says. 

“Do you think he’ll check it?” Dick asks. 

Barbara shrugs. “He obviously checks through the files; how else does he get access to the cases he helps with?” 

“It’s worth the risk, Barbara, do it,” Batman says, standing and pulling his cowl back on. “Add a notification to the message that will tell us when he opens it,” he orders. “I’m going back out.” 

“But, Master Bruce—“ Alfred starts. 

“Alone,” he adds, cutting Alfred off. He is out of the cave in the next moment. 

Barbara purses her lips on the screen. “Well, I’m glad he’s being rational and level-headed about all this,” she says. 

Dick sighs and Jason snorts. 

“I’ll talk you boys later,” Barbara says. 

“Later, Babs,” Jason replies, already turning away. 

“Maybe—“ Dick starts but Barbara already made the screen go dark. 

“I see you two are getting along much better,” Jason says sarcastically. Dick shoots him a warning glare and Jason lets the subject drop. 

There is a beat of silence in the cave where Jason shifts uncomfortably, pushing to his feet. “Are you still leaving tomorrow?” Jason finally asks, not meeting Dick’s eyes. 

Dick glances over, surprised that was what was on the boy’s mind. “Uh, I’m not sure,” Dick answers truthfully. He catches Alfred’s watchful eye and continues, “I was thinking of staying the weekend. If that’s okay?” 

Jason shrugs nonchalantly. “Sure, whatever.” 

Jason is already turning and walking to the changing rooms. Alfred catches Dick’s eye and gives him a grateful look. 

Dick can see what’s going on here. The two are using him as a buffer and for some reason, Alfred is encouraging it. But Dick trusts Alfred in this and he really does want to help mend the relationship between Bruce and Jason. Dick remembers how jealous he was of it when Jason first came and now that it’s ruined, he can’t help but feel. . . a little guilty. Bruce is . . . Bruce. But he’s good with Jason. Maybe even just what Jason needs. 

A cold hand grips Dick’s heart and his stomach churns. He _has_ to fix this between Jason and Bruce because _he_ is responsible for everything going so wrong. For a second, Dick’s breath is taken away with the weight of the guilt. It doesn’t matter how many times Jason has told him otherwise, yelled at him otherwise, Dick had seen the look on Bruce’s face when he met them at that hospital in Ethiopia. Dick can still hear the words ringing in his ears. _Your fault._

_He_ was the one who didn’t stop Jason from going to Ethiopia. Who went _with_ him, with no back-up, without even _telling_ Bruce. For a moment, a different Jason fills Dick’s vision, broken, bleeding, _dying._ And Dick has to look away from the fading figure of the boy in front of him. He’d been running from the guilt, the anger, the blame, for a year now. He’d stayed away even when Barbara had gotten hurt, knowing that his presence would only add to her pain. He’d stayed away from the manor, calling at strange hours of the day or night when he knew Bruce wouldn’t be home. He’d _kept_ himself away. 

Because that had been for the best, right? 

Dick glances again at Alfred and he knows why the butler brought him back. His absence hasn’t been enough to fix everything. 

But Dick doesn’t know what will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I can't even imagine what fear toxin is like only six months after you've been tortured. I can understand why Bruce would want to bench him for the night.
> 
> Ah Dick, discovering intentions are not enough to mend relationships. Alas, a hard fact of life we all must learn at some point.


	10. The Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I know Jack's company didn't go bankrupt until later, I kind of imagine the cracks are already there, and when the Drakes died, the stock crashed, and the company went under, leaving any debt the Drakes' had to be settled upon their death by the estate.

#### October 29th, 2018  
16:45  
Kane Public Library, Gotham 

Tim is cursing himself for being an idiot. Stupid, arrogant, short sighted. He feels like banging his head on the desk a few times just to see if he can wake up any more brain cells. But he isn’t going to do that. Mostly because he's in public. And maybe also because a small part of him knows that it won’t work. 

Tim had been doing a cursory look through the GCPD database and he noticed the file size changed on the Marino case. So, he'd opened it. What an _idiot._

It was flagged. Tim doesn’t know what sort of tech Oracle had riddled it with. Honestly, he wouldn’t put anything past her. Maybe it was malware that hacked the webcam of the computer and took a picture of his face and forwarded it to Batman. That didn’t seem possible, but Tim is paranoid. He barely noticed what Oracle had even asked before he deleted the file and all traces of it from the GCPD database, exited out of the computer, turned it off, ‘accidentally’ spilt the rest of his coffee on the computer’s hard drive, just to be sure, and nearly fled the library. 

Well that location is burned. That was the only library near to his school that didn’t have security cameras. And there was a great coffee place across the street. Tim is still pissed but with every step, his anger subsides. 

Okay, destroying the hard drive may have been an overreaction. He is especially regretting it because he now has no coffee. Tim rubs his temple. It is almost five o’clock, officially evening time, but he still feels like he's going back to his foster house early. 

Usually, Tim will leave around six in the morning, getting early to school, and returning just before dinner, maybe seven at night. His foster parents had commented on it at first, but Tim just said that he liked to study in the school library. They accepted it. Tim thinks that they are almost scared to push, like they want him to feel at home in their house. 

Beth and Peter. Those are their names. Right now, though, Tim has to think of them as “foster parents.” Nothing more. He’s had nice ones before and they never seem to last. 

So, Tim isn’t unpacking. He has spent the better part of the past two weeks dodging personal questions and he is really starting to wear thin. He has spent the better part of the last seventeen months being bumped from foster home to foster home. But, Beth and Peter aren’t bad people. And he's had quite a few families to compare them to, living with seven foster families in the year and a half since his parents died. None of them were as deserving of being called ‘home’ as Beth and Peter were. 

But Tim is still having a little trouble. 

He opens the front door to his foster house slowly, hoping that he can slip in unnoticed. No such luck. Beth is in the kitchen and looks up right when he pops open the door. 

“Tim?” she asks, like it could be anyone else. 

“Um, hey, Beth,” Tim replies, wincing internally and shutting the door behind him. 

Beth sets down whatever she is working on and comes into view, wiping her hands on her jeans and staining them with marinara sauce. Beth doesn’t seem notice. She has on a timid smile and with her hair pulled back into a bun and flour up her arms, she looks. . . homey. 

“You’re back early,” she says, a little shocked. Tim supposes she has a reason. He's been avoiding this place like the plague for almost two weeks now. Tim just nods. 

“Well, um,” she starts. “Do you want to. . . help me with dinner or something?” She smiles hopefully. Tim is going to hell. His first instinct is to make an excuse. To slide into the other room claiming he has to do homework or studying. But he meets her eyes and, dammit, she just looks so hopeful. 

Tim has been sneaking out of houses since he was 10 years old. First, out of Jack and Janet’s town home in North Gotham. It wasn’t hard, the two were rarely home, though remembering this now feels wrong. Like an accusation they can’t defend themselves against. 

Tim’s first foster home was equally easy to sneak out. At the edge of crime alley, it was more of a group home than anything else. Tim shared the room with two other boys, both older, both slipped out the back window themselves once the sun was down. If they ever noticed an 11-year-old Tim sneaking back in at three or four in the morning, they never commented on it. 

Those were the nights when Tim would sneak out to simply wander Gotham. Almost baiting the men who would wait in the shadows. _Here I am._ He would think. _If Gotham is so dangerous, here I am._

But nothing ever happened. Perhaps if Janet and Jack Drake had been wandering crime alley in the dead of night instead of on a cruise in the Caribbean, they would still be alive today. 

But they weren’t. And Tim was. And after months of wandering the streets, of sneaking out of three separate foster homes, Tim saw them again for the first time.

Batman and Robin. 

Maybe it was a complete coincidence. Maybe Tim had subconsciously drifted toward the roof of the police station that night, knowing it was only a matter of time. 

There had been an Arkham breakout. The signal had been lit. And of course, they had come. 

It was seeing them again, the man and the boy he had looked up to since he was four years old, that finally snapped something inside of him. Something he had been pushing down, keeping compact and small and controlled. Tending to it all those months. Cultivating it. 

Rage. Anger like Tim had never felt. If he had thought his twelve-year-old voice wouldn’t get lost in the wind, he would have yelled at them, screamed at them. Thinking back, maybe he had. He doesn’t remember that night very well. He remembers crying. He remembers being cold. He remembers he didn’t return back to his foster home until after the sun was already well into the sky. It hadn’t mattered, no one noticed. He moved to his fourth foster home a month later. 

The next day, he’d sold his father’s watch, one of the few things he had been allowed to keep after the social service lady that first night had explained how everything he knew was being _repossessed._ He didn’t understand at the time, his eleven-year-old brain not quite grasping what came of a mixture of gambling, debt and crashing stocks. Tim bought a camera with the money. A cheap one, plastic and used, knowing anything that looked fancier would get taken in a week. Then, Tim spent the next few days modifying it. 

And that’s when it started. 

And the sneaking out never stopped. 

And it had never been hard. Not the sneaking, not the lying, not the distance. 

And Tim looks into Beth’s eyes now, and doesn’t understand why it's so much harder this time. 

Tim is Beth and Peter’s first foster kid. They are trying so damn hard. Tim is a horrible person. 

“Uh, sure,” he hears himself saying. 

Beth beams. 

Tim is going to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it is a long forgotten fact of cannon that the Drakes were not Bruce's neighbors until _after_ Tim became Robin, because he manipulated a paralyzed Jack into buying the house next to Bruce's.
> 
> What I want to know is this: who lived in that house before the Drakes? And did they ever notice the peculiar hours the Waynes kept? I know _I_ think it's weird that _my_ neighbor is still up at 2 am most nights.


	11. Trust

#### October 29th, 2018  
20:14  
Cave, Gotham 

When Dick finds his way into the Batcave, he is already dreading the conversation. He wants to talk to Bruce about the girl, Stephanie, who seems to be fighting crime without a lifeline. Dick can’t reconcile the man who raised him with one that would allow a 14-year-old girl to risk her life with no support. 

But Bruce seemed to be avoiding him for all intents and purposes. And now, Dick can’t even find Alfred. 

So, he goes into the Batcave already annoyed. Which is never a good start. But when his foot hits the bottom of those steps, and he sees the picture on the main screen, Bruce leaning back into his chair in civvies staring up at it, all irritation is gone. Alfred pauses in his cleaning and Jason is nowhere to be seen. 

“Tell me that’s not the tipster,” Dick says. 

Bruce doesn’t turn around. “That’s not the tipster,” he replies with little emotion. The deadpan voice annoys Dick but he has to pick his battles. 

Dick walks up to stand beside him. “Is that the truth?” Dick asks instead. 

“No.” 

“Oh. Good.” 

Bruce sighs and turns away from the picture, rubbing his temples. 

The photo is clearly a newspaper clipping, but Dick can’t tell what the story is about. It looks like a school photo, of a young boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, with dark black hair, and blue eyes that tilt up. The kid is grinning but it isn’t the smile Dick would normally associate with a child. He looks . . . bemused. Like he knows something the photographer doesn’t. 

“He looks familiar,” Dick prompts when Bruce doesn’t offer any more information. 

“His name’s Timothy Drake. You might have seen his picture in the paper a year and a half ago when his parents were murdered.” 

Dick’s head whips around and he meets Bruce’s eyes, trying to determine if he is making a joke in very poor taste. He isn’t. 

“He’s thirteen,” Bruce adds. Dick shakes his head. 

“Teenagers in Gotham,” Dick says. For a second, Dick almost thinks Bruce has smiled. But when he glances over, the man’s face is as blank as ever. 

“I’m going to talk to him tonight, can you take Jason out?” Bruce asks, turning away from Dick so the request almost sounds like an order. 

Dick’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, you’re going to talk to him alone?” Dick glances at Alfred, a habit he’s fallen into since coming back, to see if he can get the older man’s support but Alfred has simply moved onto cleaning the next glass case. 

Bruce glares over at Dick like he is offended at the surprise. Dick simply stares back unflinchingly. 

“B, what are you going to say to this kid? Yell at him to go home like you apparently do to his friend every time you see her? Maybe the reason he doesn’t want to meet you is because he knows about the way you treat Stephanie.” Well, Dick has already started now. 

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Timothy Drake started fighting crime before Stephanie did, so the reason is deeper than that,” he says simply. 

Dick rolls his eyes. “You’re missing my point,” he starts again but Bruce cuts him off this time. 

“I got your point.” 

Dick narrows his eyes. “No, Bruce, I really think you are missing it. What were you thinking with Stephanie? What if that girl got injured?” 

Bruce turns away harshly. “She’s _not_ my responsibility. I didn’t ask her to wear the mask. Hell, I’ve done the opposite!” 

Suddenly it all hits Dick at once. “Is this about Barbara?” He asks quietly before he can think it through. Bruce hears him all the same. He doesn’t respond. 

“B, what happened to Babs wasn’t your fault,” Dick says. He’s treading in open water here. He feels guilty saying it. How many nights has he blamed himself what happened to Barbara? Guilty for not being there? For failing her? For letting their ridiculous fight keep him away? Dick isn’t the right person for this conversation and a part of him wishes he could back out of it. 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dick,” Bruce replies, voice brittle and full of warning. And despite being slightly relieved, the dismissal irritates Dick even more. He rolls his eyes. 

“Of course, you don’t want to talk about it,” Dick throws his hands in the air. “When do you ever want to talk.” 

“Seriously, Dick, not tonight,” Bruce is saying but Dick just snorts. 

“Yeah, not any other night either, right?” Dick turns to leave the cave. 

“Just,” Bruce says quietly. “Not tonight.” 

Dick glances back. Why is he feeling guilty? He shares another look with Alfred who motions he will be up in a bit. Dick nods and climbs up the stairs to the grandfather clock. 

He goes to give Jason the good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was a short chapter. My bad.
> 
> Oh Dick and Bruce are just riddled with guilt aren't they? Well don't worry, I'm sure nothing will happen when the boys go out alone on patrol!


	12. Found

#### October 30th, 2018  
00:25  
Another Rooftop, Gotham 

It isn’t until midnight that Tim can finally sneak out of the house. Beth and Peter spend the evening just _talking_. At one point, they even consider playing a hand of cards or a board game. They must finally see Tim’s eyes start to dart away, notice him pulling back and beginning to mumble, and realize that Tim is less than comfortable with all the attention. They let him turn in for the night. 

Tim waits until they both go to bed, grabs his camera, his coat, and eases the window open, slipping out into the night. 

Steph has probably already started surveillance for the evening if she hasn’t gotten distracted fending off muggers somewhere around crime alley. 

Tim pauses for a moment standing on the fire escape and takes in the dank air of Gotham city. He begins climbing to the roof, catching eye of Wayne enterprise, always in sight, a beacon of light in an otherwise dark city. Tim snorts. He pulls himself onto the roof, getting a better look at the downtown. Standing there, on the roof of the sixteen-floor building, Tim thinks that maybe he should be feeling powerful. But he just feels small. 

And more like a child than ever. 

Then, the hairs on the back of Tim’s neck stand up on end and the boy sighs, drooping his head. 

“So, you found me,” he seems to tell the city. There is a strange silence that hangs in the air. Tim turns around to an empty rooftop and suddenly he feels foolish. He’s paranoid tonight, maybe he was just imagining things. 

But then, from the shadows, Batman emerges. 

His suit has changed since the last time Tim saw him up close, but that had been almost 9 years ago. When a then 11-year-old Dick Grayson watched his parents fall to their death and a 4-year-old Tim Drake watched Batman sweep him up, take him in, and provide the greatest comfort. Batman had been his hero. And then, Robin. 

And now? Tim Drake is only annoyed that he has been found so easily. The library today. He should have known this was coming. Perhaps he had. 

Tim gives himself a minute to put the pieces together. Batman hasn’t said anything yet. 

Then, the boy smacks himself on the forehead. 

“The access logs. And you set up a camera on the streetlight in the intersection,” he says, almost to himself. He _knew_ there hadn’t been a red-light camera at that intersection before today. Why hadn’t he remembered that before? “Of fucking course,” Tim mutters. 

Tim glances up at Batman, who still hasn’t spoken. “You know, Steph was telling the truth. I put everything I had into the file. I’m not holding back any information.” 

Tim is starting to get seriously unnerved by the white lenses that cover Batman’s eyes. He can see why they’re so effective on criminals. Tim forces himself not to shift uncomfortably. 

“How old are you?” Batman finally speaks, his voice harsh and graveled. 

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. Whatever he had been expecting Batman to ask him, that was not it. It catches him off guard. More than that, Tim is sure Batman already knows the answer to the question. He knows who Tim is, he knows how to find him. So why ask? To get Tim to admit it? For power? To remind Tim that he is just a boy? 

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t already know the answer to that question,” Tim decides to call him on it. Batman’s face is inscrutable as the white eyes stare back. Tim fold his arms, trying not to portray how unnerved he is. Should he look at the white lenses or Batman’s mask? The mask itself is grotesque, but Tim was more prepared for it. For some reason, the eyes. . . 

“You’re 13,” Batman says plainly. “And you’re running around Gotham at night, giving tips to the police?” Batman speaks like he is a teacher, prompting his student to answer the question he posed. 

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up again. “And how old was Robin when you first had him flying from rooftop to rooftop?” he shoots back, suddenly feeling very defensive. 

Batman’s eyes narrow but Tim forces himself to stand his ground. Aside from the white slits for eyes, there isn’t much about Batman that intimidates Tim. Maybe he’s crazy or just a little too flippant about his own life, maybe it’s the anger starting to bubble deep in his stomach, but Tim can’t bring himself to be scared. 

“I’m just saying, don’t be hypocritical,” Tim shrugs. It might have been a trick of the light, but Tim thinks he sees a smile play on Batman’s lips. 

“I need to know how you connected the tattooed man to Two-Face,” Batman states plainly. 

Tim looks confused. “You mean Skinny Vinny?” 

Batman looks at him surprised. “That name didn’t pop up in your file.” 

Tim shakes his head. “It’s not his real name. I’m pretty sure his name isn't even any variation of those words or sounds. And I didn’t connect him to Two-Face. I connected Two-Face to him. Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be a good detective.” Okay, Tim just threw that last part in there to be mean. The ghost of that long-cultivated anger still lingering deep inside the pit of Tim’s stomach. 

Batman folds his arms across his chest. “I am,” he growls. But even to him, the excuse sounds weak. Batman seems strangely uncomfortable with needing a 13-year-old to explain the case, Tim thinks. But he waits. 

“Look, Vinnie sells crack on the corner of 8th and Harbor. Least he used to. I don’t know what he’s doing with Two-Face. That’s why I gave the case to you.” 

Batman takes a moment to digest that. 

“How do you know where he sells drugs?” Batman asks. Tim looks at him. 

“I recognized the guy,” Tim says slowly. 

It is another beat before Batman speaks again. “What do you mean used to?” 

Tim gives him another funny look. “Well, I mean he did, maybe he still does. I haven’t been over there in a while.” Tim waits a moment. “Have you even been working this case?” 

Batman’s eyes narrow even more. “We don’t have any sort of chatter about Two-Face making a move.” 

Tim looks at him like he is crazy. “Well, that’s weird,” he argues, incensed. “Maybe you should try tracking down Vinnie,” Tim suggests slowly. 

Batman narrows his eyes, honestly not sure if this 13-year-old is pulling his leg or not. Tim narrows his own eyes. The anger has gone from ghost to corporeal and it’s now pulsing through Tim’s body. 

“Well, this was a good talk. I’d say anytime, but please no,” Tim says, turning away. Tim walks over to the edge of the building before turning back, expecting to still see Batman there. 

But all he sees is the smoky lights of the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, i suppose Tim _did_ leave something out of that file. But how was he supposed to know Batman's archive of known drug dealers would be so incomplete?


	13. The Meeting

#### October 30th, 2018  
00:48  
A Completely Different and Yet Eerily Similar Rooftop, Gotham 

“You’re being quiet tonight.” Nightwing glances over at Robin, who is perched on the rooftop next to him, possibly ignoring the older boy. 

There is silence for a few moments after Nightwing asks the question and he seriously wonders if his comms are turned off. 

“What do you want me to say?” Robin grumbles, walking away from the ledge of the building. 

Nightwing shrugs. “You never mentioned this continuing education meeting,” he says. Maybe Dick is over stepping, but him and Jason usually talk at least a couple times a week. Jason’s a junior now and Dick hasn’t even thought to ask him about what he’s planning on doing after high school. Dick complains to Jason on multiple occasions about inner turmoil and future plans. His decision to join the academy. 

Jason hasn’t mentioned _anything._

Dick gets a nasty look that even he can make out from a building away. But he feels he has a right to push here and meets the younger boy’s glare. 

“Is this how it’s going to be? You push his point for him when he isn’t here?” Jason snaps. Dick rolls his eyes. 

“Please, Jason. Have we met? College drop out here? The failure child? The disappointment? Outcast to Bludhaven?” Dick responds. Jason glances over, his gaze significantly softer. 

Jason snorts and walks over to the edge of the building closer to Dick. It feels like a small gesture and Dick forces himself not to read too much into it. 

“I always forget you dropped out,” Jason smiles. Dick glances over at Jason, raising his eyebrow at the pride in the younger boy’s voice. Dropping out of college had been a big moment of contention between him and Bruce but for a moment, like Jason, Dick wants to laugh at it. 

“You know, whenever you’re not in the room, you would think Bruce idolizes you. He doesn’t see you as a failure, Dick,” Jason says. Dick freezes. He’s startled by Jason’s tone, like Jason is the older brother comforting the younger one. He’s also frozen by Jason’s words. He’s heard them before but, for the first time, on that roof, Dick might actually believe them. Dick’s been angry at Bruce for almost three years. Not constantly. There was a time, just before Ethiopia, where things might have gotten better. 

But then, after that night. Dick can’t think about it. The look in Bruce’s eyes. The anger on Barbara’s face. Alfred’s fear. 

The fighting had been exhausting before. But the last year, something deeper had been driving Dick away from the manner. And even watching Jason now, back in costume on the rooftops of Gotham, bile rises in Dick’s throat. 

Dick shakes his head, opening his mouth to say something more, but a pop in his comms cuts him off. 

“Hey,” Barbara’s voice rings through his ears, tight with worry. “Got multiple police reports, of something happening at the east docks in Miller Harbor. Just a few blocks from your location.” 

Dick’s eyes meet Jason’s and the both race off their building together, firing propeller guns at nearly the same time. 

“What do the reports say?” Nightwing asks, growing serious. 

“Conflicting reports. No shots fired, just chatter that something is going down tonight," Oracle explains. "Proceed with caution. I notified Batman but he’s across the city. I’ll link up your comms,” she says, and in an instant Nightwing hears another pop. 

“Approach with caution,” Batman says in lieu of a greeting. Nightwing can almost feel Robin roll his eyes but Nightwing takes the advice with care. 

“Noted,” is all he says and he hears Batman huff in the background. Nightwing is a little out of practice on what that means but it isn’t really important at the moment. 

He signals to Robin to land on a roof of the storage warehouse north of the docks. Robin lands silently next to him. 

“Several thermals in the loading station,” Nightwing reports. 

“And more arriving,” Robin adds, nodding off to the right. Nightwing narrows his eyes at the incoming men. There are four of them. The heat signatures show four inside the warehouse as well. Curious. 

Then, Nightwing is able to make out one of the men walking up to the warehouse. He curses. Robin follows his gaze and echoes the sentiment. 

“Hey, B?” Robin says into the comm. “We found our mystery tattoo guy.” His voice has an unusual amount of cheer to it. 

“Skinny Vinnie,” Batman muses. 

“Our tipster gave you a name?” Oracle asks. 

“A moniker,” Batman replies vaguely. 

“We need ears inside,” Robin is saying, standing up from the crouching spot him and Nightwing are hidden in. 

“Wait,” Batman commands. Robin doesn’t even hesitate, firing a propeller and swinging across to the roof of the warehouse. 

“Shit,” Nightwing mutters, running after him. Batman doesn’t reply but an icy silence seeps through the comms. 

Nightwing lands next to Robin who is already trying to jimmy his way through the roof access door. Nightwing stands on lookout. He doesn’t necessarily disagree with Robin’s sentiment that they need eyes and ears inside the warehouse. They don’t have time to wait for Batman. Something is happening now. Plus, as long as Nightwing is with Robin, that’s safer than Robin going in alone, which he would surely do anyways. _Right?_

“We’re in,” Robin says, and the old dead bolt snaps off the door. Perfect timing. The group of four with the tattooed man are entering the building. Brief words are exchanged but Nightwing can’t make them out. They need to get closer. 

Robin and Nightwing slip inside. 

The door leads to a small room with a maintenance ladder in the floor, leading to a small walkway lining the ceiling. Not a bad place to hang out and spy on whatever was happening inside. Robin and Nightwing drop down, trying to find a view of the door or of the four heat signatures already inside. 

“Ten minutes,” Batman sounds in their ears. 

“I found like thirty matches in Gotham for the nickname ‘Skinny Vinnie’ or similar variations and got nothing matching our tattoo guy,” Oracle chimes in. 

“Look for dealers arrested on the corner 8th and Harbor,” Batman growls in response. “I want an ID on this guy.” 

“Careful,” Nightwing whispers as Robin jumps from the railing of the platform they are on to another a few feet away. Robin glances back and dramatically rolls his eyes. 

Nightwing perches at the edge of the platform he is on, catching sight of two of the four men who are below. 

Robin goes to get a different vantage point on the situation. A loud creaking, the warehouse door swinging open and shut, signals the other four men have entered the building. 

The two men that Nightwing has eyes on are joined by another two. As one of the men that walks up, Nightwing pegs him as the leader. He’s been on this job too long not to recognize it. The way he walks. The way the other men act around him. 

Tall, dark hair, no stand out features. Unremarkable. All four of them are. Nightwing doesn’t think he would be able to pick out any of them from a line up. 

The four who joined them were the same. One is blond, which is somewhat interesting, Nightwing supposes. A great show of diversity, he thinks wryly. 

“You’re late,” the man that Nightwing pegged as the leader says, nodding to the tattoo man. Tattoo man just shrugged, like he can’t be bothered to keep track of things as trivial as time. 

“I don’t like this, B,” Nightwing says, eyes narrowing. He's nearly twitching with anticipation. Something is about to happen. This can't be good. 

“Five minutes,” Batman hisses through gritted teeth. 

“I don’t like it when people show up late,” the leader man is saying, his voice absurdly patient but his tone dark. Nightwing gets a strange feeling from him. He’s sure the man is posturing, showing off his power like this is all a game. Egos make business like this dangerous. 

“Makes them smell funny,” the leader continues, scrunching his nose for effect. 

“Well, I’ll make sure to take a shower after we finish up business,” the tattooed man responds. “Do you have it?” He asks and his voice hitches, emotion breaking through his casual demeanor for the first time. Worry? Fear? 

“I have something,” Oracle sounds suddenly in Nightwing’s ear and both him and Robin give a startled jump. “Edwin Vinson Rowe. Arrested on the corner of 8th and Harbor, wait for it, fourteen years ago. No tattoo yet and the reason he didn’t show up on the facial match is because the arrest was when he was a minor. The records were expunged. I’m guessing this letter his mom wrote the court promising to keep him off the streets is moot. I’ll age up his photo to check, but I think he’s our guy. Just eyeballing it.” 

“Eyeballing it?” Nightwing asks quietly, letting a smile slip to his face. 

“I’m pretty sure,” Oracle shoots back but there is something, maybe Nightwing is just being wishful, playful in her voice. 

“Good enough for me,” Robin cuts in, but he shoots Nightwing an eye roll. 

“One minute,” Batman adds. 

The dark-haired man has answered by now and asked something back, but Nightwing missed it. The tattooed man shrugs. 

“I don’t ask too many questions. I suggest you do the same,” he says. 

The leader man nods and tosses something over to the tattooed man. It’s small, a flash drive? Nightwing can’t tell. 

“Keep that safe from now on,” the leader man says. Nightwing hadn’t realized the tattooed man was so tense, until he relaxes just at this moment. 

“The exchange just happened,” Nightwing hisses into the comms. 

“We need to go now, before they get away,” Robin is saying at the same time. 

“Coming through the front,” is all Batman says and both protégées leap from their places at the same time, taking the cue and jumping into action. 

A huge bang was the only indication Nightwing has that Batman is suddenly on the scene. All Nightwing sees is a door, flying across the room, shortly followed by the yelp of one of the tattooed man’s body guards. 

In the meantime, Nightwing is dealing with his own action. Nightwing lands on one of the goons, wrapping his legs around the man’s neck and using momentum to flip the man, knocking him out. Then Nightwing sideswipes another of the men close to him, knocking him on his back. 

The tattooed man, Edwin apparently, doesn’t even try to stick around for the ensuing fight. Why would he? He got whatever he was here for. The man is making a break for the door. And Robin spots him, sprinting in pursuit. 

“Robin!” Batman snarls, but he is tied down by two thugs and a third is circling the fight. 

Nightwing is only facing one, but the man flips out a knife. 

“Stay back,” he says. Nightwing snorts, diving forward. He gives a roll to the side and lands a kick to the man’s torso. Surprise was on Nightwing’s side with the first two guys, but now he actually has a fight on his hands. The man gives a few jabs and swipes with his knife, and Nightwing dodges them. He goes in with a punch, hitting the man’s jaw, who in return, swings wildly with his knife arm, giving Nightwing a slash across his chest. It doesn’t break the Kevlar, but Nightwing feels the impact of the swing and quickly regains his balance. Nightwing steps on the man’s hand as he falls to the ground, knocking the knife out of it. He bends and zip ties the guy's hands together, racing after Robin in the next second. 

Batman can take care of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of flipped with names here a bit, I hope it isn't confusing. I was trying to using Nightwing/Robin when the two are doing anything superhero related, But Dick/Jason when they are talking like brother things. Hopefully it's easy enough to follow!
> 
> Also, action! Kinda.


	14. Three Bullets and A Lie

#### October 30th, 2018  
20:02  
Crime Alley, Gotham 

Stephanie climbs out of her window and up to the roof of her apartment building only to be met by the extremely serious face of Tim Drake. 

“Well, hello,” Steph says, pulling up her hood so she is fully donned in her Spoiler costume. Tim just wears a hoodie and jeans. He has no concept for style. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he declares, as if Steph will have any idea what he is talking about. 

“Good,” she says instead. “Flexible morals are what this country was built on.” 

Tim sighs and rolls his eyes, letting Steph climb fully onto the roof. 

“What have you changed your mind on?” Steph finally asks. 

Tim gives her a wary look. He’s hesitant on what he’s about to say next and that makes Steph nervous. 

“I think we made a mistake handing the Two-Face case off to Batman,” he says straight-faced. 

Steph gives a small smile, waiting for Tim to come to the punch line. He just stares at her. 

“You’re serious?” She asks, her smiled fading. “Wait, are you serious?” 

Tim bites his lower lip and nods and Steph can see just how serious he is. 

“Um, why?” She asks. “I mean yeah, let’s take down Two-Face, but what changed your mind?” 

“Ran into Batman last night,” Tim replies dryly. Steph’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah. The case stalled with him.” Tim crosses his arms uneasily. “Steph, I’m not being impulsive. This will probably be dangerous. If you don’t want to—“ 

“Please, Tim,” Steph cuts in. “You don’t have to give me the speech. I know I can walk away at any time. _I’m_ not an idiot either.” 

This makes Tim give a little smile, despite how serious he was a moment before. 

Steph gives a smile back. “Alright, let’s go, fuck Batman!” Now Tim is rolling his eyes. But both of them know how serious the conversation they just had was. Two-Face is a class above anything they have ever handled. 

“There was a comma in that sentence, right?” 

“Fuck off.” Steph doesn’t even glance over at Tim as she shoots the comeback. The two are falling back into their familiar rhythm. 

“Well, where do we start then?” Steph asks, composing herself to match the seriousness of the conversation. Tim hesitates and Steph realizes that for as confident as Tim sounds, she isn’t sure he _has_ entirely thought this through. He’s hesitating for some reason and maybe Steph should give him a moment, let him think this through. Instead, she keeps talking. “Let’s go back to Skinny Vinnie, right? He should be selling tonight, it’s only eight. Maybe ask around the neighborhood and see if anyone has rumors?” 

Tim is nodding, like Steph’s words are calming. “In civvies, then?” He asks. Steph rolls her eyes and slips back over the side of the building. “I could have gotten away with it tomorrow night,” she tosses back at Tim, who follows her down the fire escape. She knows Tim won’t look in so she undresses right away, shedding her purple costume and pulling on some leggings and coat. She hates going out without her costume, but sometimes it was necessary. 

Tim snorts. “Oh yeah, I hear the eggplant emoji is going to be a popular costume this Halloween.” Steph rolls her eyes and throws her middle finger up over her shoulder, but knows Tim is likely not to see it. 

She doesn’t understand how Tim goes out in little more than jeans and sweatshirt each night. Doesn’t he feel . . . Steph doesn’t know. _Exposed?_ She doesn’t linger on the costume issue, and neither does Tim, which Steph appreciates. They can joke and tease, but a deeper discussion on the topic would probably bring up sensitive topics for the both of them. 

Steph knows Tim doesn’t understand her choices either. But that was what was so refreshing about being around Tim. He _doesn’t_ understand her, but he doesn’t ask her to explain herself. And he lets her make her own choices, good or bad. He’s just . . . there. And she’s determined to be the same way for him. 

Steph crawls back out of her window and presents her new outfit to Tim who smirks in approval and hops off the fire escape silently. He does it so casually, Steph is almost surprised. But she should know better by now. She follows, almost as quietly. 

It’s about a ten-minute walk to Skinny Vinnie’s corner and her and Tim fill it with idle chatter. Sometimes, she takes this part of her friendship with Tim for granted. Tim and Steph share something on the rooftops of Gotham in the middle of the night, but sometimes what Steph appreciates more are the mornings at Monet’s. Or the times like this, where Steph can ask Tim about school, and he’ll roll his eyes and tell her how he falls asleep in his algebra class and Steph will tease him that he needs a tutor, even though Steph is sure Tim knows more algebra than she does. 

“How’s home life?” Tim asks her and Steph knows that he means her mom, but he’s giving her an out in case she really doesn’t want to talk about it. Steph hesitates. 

Then, she shrugs. “She relapsed after my dad went back to prison.” Steph stares straight ahead, refusing to watch Tim’s reaction. 

Tim is silent for a moment, giving Steph the space to continue if she wants to. Tim was easy to talk to. No judgement, right? 

“I’m trying to get her to go to rehab again but. . . we aren’t talking at the moment. So, it’s hard.” 

Steph can feel Tim looking at her. “I’m sorry Steph,” he says quietly and Steph hates that her eyes fill with tears. 

“Yeah, well,” Steph says, but let’s the sentence hang in the air. Tim’s shoulder brushes hers and despite the tears in her eyes, she fights back a smile. 

The pair round the corner and start walking down Harbor, watching the street numbers wane and keeping their heads down. Steph hates this area of town. Not that this place was particularly unique in comparison to any other dark corner of Gotham. In fact, it might have even been one of the better ones. She can’t even remember the last time someone was shot on the block. It must have been months ago. But still, Steph can feel the eyes of every boy and man that her and Tim pass and despite Tim walking beside her, and her own knowledge that she could judo flip any of these pigs who approached her, Steph feels particularly watched. 

The first thing Steph notices is that Skinny Vinnie is not on his corner. There are a couple of teenagers hanging out there instead. Tim imperceptibly holds out a hand and Steph stops, letting Tim venture forward and greet a man Steph doesn’t know and doesn’t even recognize. Normally, Steph might give Tim crap for that, but she listens here. When she met him, Tim lived just a block away and knows this area better than Steph does and the way the man and Tim embrace, Steph decides to trust Tim. 

Steph feels the hair on her neck stand up a bit and she casually scans the area, trying to find who is setting off her warning system. There’s a man, across the street, leaning against an abandoned building, though every building around here seems to be abandoned. He is staring at Steph. Intently. And he isn’t trying to hide it. Not even when Steph meets his gaze. Part of her wants to look away, or creep closer to Tim, but she shoves that part down and meets the guy’s stare. He looks familiar. But Steph doesn’t know why. Maybe she’d seen him at some point when she’d been out as Spoiler. He doesn’t exactly look like a good character. 

Steph is wondering exactly how she’s going to end this staring contest with the man when suddenly Tim comes up behind her, brushing her elbow. Steph whips around, breaking eye contact. 

“Everything okay?” Tim asks, his voice tight with stress. Tim doesn’t like this any more than Steph does, which makes sense. Tim is a background guy he likes working behind the scenes. The pair blend in on this street but are still watched, as the outsiders they are. Maybe if Tim had come alone, he would have blended in better. Everyone looks at the new girl on the street, not everyone looks at the new boy. 

“Yeah,” Steph says, glancing back across the street. The man is still staring but Steph doesn’t find gaze quite as unsettling. “You know him?” Steph asks, turning away but knowing that Tim will know who she is talking about. Tim furrows his eyebrows, likely surprised that Steph’s first question wasn’t about Skinny Vinnie. 

“No,” murmurs Tim. “Why?” He’s gently pushing on Steph’s elbow, telling her to start walking. She does. 

“No reason. He was just looking at me funny,” Steph says, trying to make her voice seem calm. But Tim picks up on the underlying tone of distress and he glances over at the man again. 

Tim pulls his eyebrows together again. “Well he’s gone now,” Tim says. Steph whips around to check and sure enough, the man had disappeared. The uneasy feeling in her stomach returns. 

But Steph shrugs. “Weird. What did those boys say?” she asks, hoping to change the subject. She’s a little ashamed of how rattled the man had made her. 

Tim’s expression darkened. “Skinny Vinnie had some big meeting last night. Hasn’t returned. Was apparently nervous about it but wouldn’t tell anyone what was going on.” 

“A big buy?” 

Tim is shaking his head. “No reason for Vinnie to get nervous about something as regular as a buy.” 

“Maybe he was switching suppliers. Who runs these parts?” Steph should probably know, but she can’t think straight. 

“Maroni brothers,” Tim replies absentmindedly. He’s thinking. 

“So maybe Vinnie has a new source?” Steph prompts. 

Tim doesn’t answer for a second. A minute. Two minutes. 

“Maybe,” he finally concedes. 

Steph rolls her eyes. “Come on, I can be right about something,” she teases. She knows this isn’t what Tim is thinking, but she teases him about it anyways. 

Tim rolls his eyes but the joke does nothing to calm his racing mind. He’s plugging all the information he has into an equation Steph can’t see. She can almost watch him try different variables, desperately trying to get the formula to balance. To make sense. 

But there’s a missing piece. 

Skinny Vinnie commits murder. Vinnie is caught on tape. But Vinnie gets away. Then, a month later, Vinnie meets up with Two Face. A few days later he has another meeting he’s nervous about. Is there even any connection at all? 

Tim is still quiet and Steph is getting impatient. 

“Or maybe—“ 

“Steph,” Tim cuts her off, but quietly, almost in a polite way. Steph snaps her mouth shut. “The Maroni brothers . . . Their father was killed a couple of years ago.” 

Steph nods when Tim doesn’t continue. “Yeah, some natural causes, right? Probably a heart attack, old geezer was like 90.” 

“78,” Tim says. “And he was murdered.” Steph glances over suspiciously at Tim. Is he feeling alright? It isn’t like him to get information wrong. He has . . . what’s it called? An eidetic memory. But _everyone_ knows how the old man died. 

“No, he—“ 

But Tim is shaking his head. “That’s what the brothers told everyone. That’s the Gotham City police said happened. But that was a lie. The police made a deal with the brothers, in exchange for wiping clean a few lingering charges on their own rap sheets. They wanted to prevent a gang war from erupting.” 

Steph doesn’t say anything. Police corruption? That should have been a given. 

“Two-Face killed Maroni.” 

Steph is _really_ starting to pay attention now. 

“That night Dent got burned, he was supposedly meeting a source Maroni had set up as part of a plea bargain with Dent. Maroni led Dent right into Joker’s trap and escaped. Dent. . . well you know what happened to him. Once he was Two-Face, he went back and put three bullets in a revolver, held it to Maroni head and . . .” 

Tim is staring straight ahead as he speaks. His gaze is distant, but not analyzing. Not working through an equation like he had been earlier. His gaze is more . . . blank. Like he is watching a movie in front of him. Steph is almost scared to ask but she has to. 

“Tim . . .” She pauses. “How do you know all this.” 

Tim’s eyes come a bit more into focus. He even gives a wry smile. “Maybe it wasn’t the best night to be snooping around,” he says. 

Steph isn’t thinking but she grabs Tim’s hand and squeezes it. Yeah, they see shit every night out here. But that? Steph tries to calculate how old Tim was then. Wasn’t that almost two years ago? Weren’t his parents still alive then? Or was that right after they died? Steph shakes the thought from her head. Either way . . . 

Steph glances back ahead. She needs to make sure they focus. “Okay. So now, why is Two-Face meeting with a Maroni dealer? Do you think they are meeting again tonight?” Steph asks. 

Tim’s eyes finally meet Steph’s. They are clear. Analytical. “That would certainly make me nervous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh-roh.
> 
> By the way, I do have a timeline mapped out that I work off of and everything makes sense, but when characters say dates, I make them guesstimate, because I would assume they _would not_ have a timeline to work off of. Bruce would totally have a timeline though, wouldn't he?


	15. Home Sick

#### October 30th, 2018  
20:36  
Clock Tower, Gotham 

Dick is still too nervous to ask what happened. He’s spent all day hiding out at Barbara’s avoiding the manor, but still feeling too guilty to return all the way to Bludhaven. Dick isn’t exactly sure why, but Barbara seems to be pitying him, allowing him to hang around. Even though he knows she must hate it. 

Maybe she’s just as scared to ask what happened. 

Dick at least knows part of what happened. Last night, Dick, as Nightwing, chased after Robin while in pursuit of Edwin Vinson Rowe, a.k.a., Skinny Vinnie. Tattooed man. Time of Death: 02:34. 

By the time Dick caught up to Jason, it was too late. Jason was standing at the edge of the building, looking down. It took longer than Dick is willing to admit for him to put together what had happened. Or maybe what didn’t happen. 

The first words out of Jason’s mouth when Dick landed on the rooftop were: “I didn’t do it.” 

Dick had immediately responded, “I know,” and pulled his brother tight. But Dick wasn’t sure what he knew. That was all the two boys said before Batman landed on roof. Bruce took everything in silence. Jason had no protests him, only a steely silence of his own, willing Batman to make the accusation. 

But Bruce never did. He just said he called GCPD and that it was time to go home. 

No one spoke for the rest of the night. Not even Alfred when the three got back to the cave. Dick thinks he made some excuse. Maybe he said he was going to bed. He’s sure he said something. 

He honestly might have walked out of the manor without saying a word. It was all too much. Too tense. Dick doesn’t know why he stayed. Dick doesn’t know why he even came back. 

He thought he was going back to Bludhaven that night, but he found himself at Barbara’s door instead. 

She let him in without a word. 

“Alfred called,” Barbara cuts through Dick’s thoughts. Dick knows Barbara has made a couple of calls to the manor throughout the day, but no one has answered. He’d been color coding some wiring for her and long since stopped paying attention, allowing his hands to complete the work on autopilot, his mind wandering. 

“Alfred?” Dick repeats. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. 

Barbara nods. “He left a message.” Barbara raises the grocery bag she carries that Dick hadn’t noticed. He also apparently hadn’t even noticed she’d left. Or that the phone rang. Where was his head right now? “He apparently wanted to apologize,” she says. 

Dick snorts and rolls his eyes. Then he catches Barbara’s look. “Oh, you’re serious?” he asks. Barbara raises an eyebrow. 

“Apologize?” he repeats stupidly. 

Barbara glances dramatically at the ceiling. “I’m a good person you know,” she whispers to the wooden beams. The dramatics shake Dick back to reality. 

“What for,” Dick asks. 

“For dragging you back, apparently. You know,” she gestures vaguely, “getting you involved in all of this.” 

“I think he was saying it’s okay to go home, Dick,” Barbara whispers. 

Home. Dick knows she means Bludhaven. Knows Alfred means Bludhaven. He has permission. A guilt free escape. But for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to take it. 

Not even a little bit. 

Dick sighs. “I gotta go back,” he says, and he knows Barbara will know what he means. She nods, like she agrees with him, then bites her lip in a way that is so familiar to Dick, it actually makes him ache a bit inside. 

“Will you,” she pauses. “Give me a ride? Alfred sounded . . . I just . . . I want to check in.” 

Dick’s eyebrows shoot up this time. He knows Barbara and Jason were close, but it didn’t occur to him that maybe she has also been avoiding the manor. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Dick says, maybe a little too enthusiastically. 

“Do you . . .” Dick trails off. 

“Yes,” Barbara says dryly. “I will need a little help getting into the car.” 

* * *

The car ride to the manor is uneventful. Dick and Barbara exchange idle talk. Barbara tells Dick about finishing her degree, which Dick had already known, but he lets her talk. They both need the idle chatter and Barbara technically hadn’t told him yet in person, so he lets her. 

Dick’s too scared to put a step wrong. He feels like every useless question is a small apology and, and maybe Dick is reading into this, every answer is a small acceptance. An _I’m still mad, but we can get past this._

Yeah, Dick is definitely reading too much into that. 

“Are you still thinking about joining the Police Academy?” Barbara asks 

Dick whips to face her. “What?” he asks. “Who told you that?” 

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Please Dick, I’ve known you since you were twelve.” 

Dick narrows his eyes. “Jason?” he asks 

Barbara nods, “Jason.” 

Dick shakes his head, his throat closing for a moment, preventing him from saying more so he just glances away. Barbara lets out a sly smile, not at all worried that she has just exposed her informant. 

“Well, I’ve actually already enrolled.” Dick admits when he can find his voice again. He’s staring straight ahead but watching out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see how Barbara will react. 

She’s surprised. She glances over at him for a moment but a second later, her gaze softens, and she looks . . . proud? 

A weight Dick didn’t know he was carrying lifts from his chest. 

“Good for you,” Barbara says. Now Dick pauses. There’s a hesitation in her voice. Did he imagine that earlier look? 

He glances over at her and she catches him looking. Dick swallows. 

“I’ve actually already graduated,” he continues tentatively. 

Now Barbara openly looks at him. She punches Dick on the arm. 

“What the fuck, Dick?” She asks, her eyes actually wide with surprise. Dick takes a moment to digest this. Barbara didn’t know. He hadn’t told her, but this means that also, Barbara hadn’t checked up on him. It would have been easy enough to find the information had she given even the most cursory of glances. But after a second, Dick realizes, Barbara is smiling. Not a lot but a little, like she isn’t even aware she’s smiling. 

Dick’s openly staring now and Barbara notices, wiping the smile off her face in an instant. But for a moment, was she proud? 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she demands. Dick bites his lip. 

“Nothing, sorry, I just—sorry.” 

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Stop acting like that,” she says, irritated now. 

“Like what?” he hesitates. 

Barbara gestures in frustration. “Like you just kicked my fucking dog or something.” 

“I—uh” Dick doesn’t know how to respond. Barbara rolls her eyes. 

“Dick, I don’t give a crap that you left. I know you thought I was mad about Jason, but I wasn’t. Well I was, but I’m not anymore. I’m over all of that. You’re here now. Can’t you just . . . act normal?” Her voice starts hard, angry almost, but it gets softer, breaking slightly at the end. 

Dick swallows. “Babs. I’m sorry. I’m really sor—“ 

Barbara glances over, cutting him off. “Really, Dick. I’m over it,” she says. 

Dick just nods. 

* * *

Barbara leaves Dick the moment he hesitates in the lobby. Okay, maybe she isn’t _completely_ over it. She was over what she said she was over. She wasn’t mad at Dick anymore for taking Jason to Ethiopia. For not stopping him. She was angry at first. So angry. And hurt. And scared. But she realizes now, if Dick hadn’t gone, Jason would have gone alone. And then . . . Barbara cannot allow herself to _think_ about what would have happened then. So, no. She isn’t angry about that anymore. And she wasn’t angry that Dick had left. Fled the fighting and the guilt and Gotham. She knew he’d needed to get away. 

But not coming back? Barbara hadn’t quite let go of _that_ anger yet. In fact, she had held onto it like it was a lifeline. When Dick wasn’t there, at least there was her anger. 

Barbara goes straight down to the cave, leaving Dick and whatever he’s thinking behind. She figures Dick will go to Jason, hoping he picked up on the ‘divide and conquer’ vibe she was giving off in the car. 

Barbara still remembers the first time she came to the cave _after._ She’d come over to the house, she couldn’t remember why exactly. She thinks Alfred wanted to give her something. It had just been a façade either way. He asked her to come down to the cave and Barbara had hated him in that moment. Why would Alfred ask something like that? So completely and utterly insensitive. She’d been so incredibly angry, she pushed herself over to the entrance of the cave, tears in her eyes, not quite sure what she was going to say, to shout, to make Bruce and Alfred and the world understand how cruel this was. 

But then. She sat before an open grandfather clock and there had been a ramp. Alfred’s eyes had tears in them too. The moment she saw it, she knew this was Bruce. His way of saying _stay. There is still a place for you here._ In this world. In _her_ world. 

And in that moment, Barbara understood Bruce a little bit more. And she knew Bruce understood her. 

Going into the cave now, Barbara hopes to see that same Bruce at the bottom. The Bruce who picked a 10-year-old Dick Grayson off the floor of a circus. The Bruce who invited a boy trying to steal his tires into his home. The Bruce who built a handicap accessible ramp into the Bat-cave so a girl who just lost her legs knew that she was still a part of the family she had worked so hard to create. 

But when she gets the bottom of the ramp, there’s only Alfred, scribbling on a familiar paper, doing inventory in the med bay. 

Alfred doesn’t look up as Barbara rolls over. 

“Where is Bruce?” Barbara asks. 

“I’m not sure,” Alfred says. Barbara stares at Alfred. Maybe he is making a very un-Alfred-like joke. Or perhaps this isn’t Alfred at all, and the cave has been compromised. Or, even more likely, this is all a hallucination and Barbara is actually still back at her apartment. Anything in that moment would have been more likely than Alfred meaning the words he just spoke. 

“You don’t know where Bruce is?” Barbara repeats, maybe hoping Alfred will correct her. He says nothing. He’s still marking off things on a clipboard though Barbara has no idea what he’s counting. 

“Well, where’s Jason?” Barbara asks and the words turn Alfred into a statute. Barbara isn’t sure he’s even breathing, though he hasn’t collapsed. A sense of dread begins to grow in her stomach. 

Barbara hears footsteps enter the cave at a run. It’s Dick. 

Barbara turns to face him as he reaches the floor of the cave. The worry on Dick’s face says it all. No, worry is too light a word. It’s fear. 

“Alfred,” Dick is out of breath. “Where’s Jason?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm... Well this certainly can't be good.
> 
> I kind of used this chapter also to flesh out Dick and Barbara's relationship more, hopefully it doesn't seem too random.


	16. Dead

#### October 31st, 2018  
09:32  
Monet’s Café, Gotham 

“Dead?” Tim repeats. Steph’s eyes widen as she sips her latte. 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” a man is saying on the other end of the phone, but Tim barely hears it. His mind is flying now, and he has to remind himself to focus on the conversation. Tim and Steph are tucked away in a corner booth at Monet’s. Steph’s own phone is frozen in her hand, half raised to her face, her call to the University hospital forgotten as Tim finally connects to Gotham Medical. 

“—else?” the man is saying. 

“Um, sorry could you repeat that?” Tim asks. 

The man on the other end sighs. “I’m sorry for your loss, but now that we have you on the phone, we were hoping you could help us fill in some holes regarding Mr. Rowe’s medical records. Are you the closest relative?” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you,” Tim hears himself saying. 

“Sir, we only need—” Tim ends the call absently, the man’s voice had been white noise since the word ‘dead.’ 

Steph dramatically tilts her head, hanging up her call. 

“Edwin Vinson Rowe,” Tim tells her dramatically, “was dead on arrival.” 

“Dead on arrival?” Steph says, the victorious grin dropping from her face. Tim nods. 

“Guess that GCPD report left a few things out.” Steph muses. 

“Categorizing a DOA as a ‘disturbance? Sounds more like someone had their thumb on the scale.” 

“So how do we figure out what the really happened?” 

“Only one way to find out.” 

Steph’s grim blossoms back onto her face. Tim continues, “the officer’s original notes should be at the 45th.” Steph’s smile falters. Her eyebrow cocks up. 

“You want to break into the GCPD file room in broad daylight?” 

Tim has a smile of his own on his face now. “Don’t be silly, Steph,” he says. “The officer won’t keep his notes in the file room. They’ll be in his desk.” 

Steph’s smile comes back. “Oh, I see. You’re insane.” 

Tim finishes his cup of coffee and stands up from the table. Steph tries to gulp hers down just as quickly and when she gets up, a whip cream mustache has formed on her upper lip. Tim fights a smile and Steph rolls her eyes. 

“I meant to do this,” Steph says pointing at the mustache. 

Tim laughs. “And I’m the insane one.” 

Steph rolls her eyes and hops to catch up with Tim as he leaves Monet’s. “Okay,” Steph clasps her hands together. “I’m with you, Stalker. You know I am. 100% supportive.” Tim throws her a look. “95% supportive.” Another look. “Listen, it’s upwards of 50%.” That gets a small laugh out of Tim and Steph purses her lips. “You do have a plan, right?” A third look. “Okay dumb question.” Another lip purse. “It’s a good plan though?” 

“Steph do you want to know the plan?” Tim asks slowly. 

“Well, first. I’m glad there is a plan.” Steph pauses for a moment. “Are we walking to the 45th?” She asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Okay I would like to know the plan.” 

* * *

As Steph listens to Officer Jacobson imply that she would never have enough to file sexual assault charges and that if she does insist on filing them it will be a horrible experience that will likely end in the charges getting dropped by the DA or Steph simply getting laughed out of a court house, Steph begins to wonder if listening to all of this is her punishment for filing a false report. 

This hadn’t _exactly_ been Tim’s plan. Tim’s plan was make a complaint, take Jacobson into another room, and then pretend to chicken out of reporting. But when she had walked up to Officer Jacobson, eyes wide with artificial fear, twisting and rubbing her hand, pretending to be nervous, and asked, trembling lip and all, to speak to him privately, Officer Jacobson may have made some assumption. And who was Steph to object when a mark _gives_ you a cover story? 

Steph listens to exactly five seconds of Officer Jacobson’s _Okay but What Had You Been Wearing at the Time_ line of questioning before realizing she won’t even have to pretend to chicken out of reporting. 

Steph would have smacked herself if someone told her she would one day try to file a false sexual assault report. Or worse, use the horrible practice of GCPD dissuading the reporting of sexual assault cases to her advantage. But this was for a good cause, right? Well, it was for stealing. But the end of it was a good cause. 

So, the end justifies the means? Steph’s trying hard not to fall down the rabbit hole of the moral implications of her actions. 

Yeah, that sounds healthy. 

Steph sees Tim pop his head out by reception. _God that took him forever._ She looks back at Officer Jacobson. “You know, you’re right.” Steph says. “Next time, I should just try to wear longer pants, or a turtleneck. Thanks so much for your help.” 

Steph grabs her bag and nearly runs out toward Tim. It’s unnecessary, Jacobson has already turned away, and maybe it looks too much like _fleeing the scene,_ but it makes Steph feel better. 

“Did you get it?” Steph says as she approaches Tim, who gives her a look that clearly says, _wait until we at least leave the building, dumdum._ “Oh no one here cares about us. Spill. You got the original notes?” 

“I took photos. Technically we didn’t even steal anything.” 

“Hey,” Steph put her finger to her lips. They were well outside the building now. “You wanna tell the whole area command?” 

Tim rolls his eyes, the ghost of a smile coming to his lips, but it disappears just as quickly as it had come. Something’s wrong. 

Steph’s own smile falls. “Tim what’s in the notes?” 

Tim glances over at her. “Steph . . . the notes . . . They say Robin killed Vinnie. They say he pushed him off the building.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone really needs to put better security in place at the GCPD.


	17. And Who The Hell Are You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not going to lie, I am openly treading water with Roy's characterization here. It's not just that I don't read Green Arrow comics, I also don't read a lot of Red Hood or _anything_ really where Roy is a prevalent character. What I remember of him is from the Titans and Outsiders back in the day. I don't know his history that well. 
> 
> Essentially, Roy is closer to Dick's age here, and I'm not sure if in the comics Roy knew Jason at all, but essentially here, I am going with 'Roy barely knows Jason.' Basically the once or twice Jason went out with the Titans.
> 
> If he feels off as a character to you, you can just treat him as an OC. I'm not confident I really know his character, so I am making a lot up.

#### October 31st, 2018  
10:20  
Anywhere but Gotham, Bludhaven 

_Get out._

The words ring in Jason’s ears. The drive back to the Manor. Slamming the door of the Batmobile. And then silence. Alfred’s face. Then those words. Get out. 

The next thing Jason knows he’s breaking and entering into a shitty apartment in downtown Bludhaven, using a spare key hidden in a freaking fake rock on a third-floor apartment. 

Jason would need to have talk with Dick about his security. 

Or, Jason supposes, he would actually probably never talk to Dick again. 

Jason opens the door and walks in. Dick was in Gotham. Even if he did come home after everything, Jason will be long gone by then. He only needs a place to crash for the night. Or the evening. It’s taken Jason all day to get to Bludhaven and the sun is just now falling behind the horizon. Maybe he should come up with a plan tonight, but Jason can barely think straight. 

The boy doesn’t even make it to his brother’s room. He falls on the couch and passes out. 

* * *

“You’re not dead, right?” 

Jason is awake in an instant. His first thought is that Dick did come back last night, but as Jason grabs the nearest object—he thinks it’s a vase, does Dick own vases?—and launches it at the intruder, wide eyes and a flash of red hair tell him it most certainly is not Dick. 

“Jesus, I guess your aim improved.” The other man stands up, there’s a grin on his face. Jason is pissed. It’s Roy Harper. 

“What the hell are you doing here,” Jason growls. He’s mad. He’s furious. All the anger from last night. From the last month boils over in a moment. Jason picks up—another vase? Jesus, Jason really needed to have a conversation with Dick about this. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Roy says, holding up his hands in surrender. Jason throws the vase and Roy just barely jumps out of the way this time, landing behind the couch. “What the hell kid, I’m starting to get pissed.” 

Jason kicks the couch so it slams into Roy and he feels satisfaction at the thud he hears. 

“Get the hell out,” Jason says, his voice detached. Suddenly Roy rolls out from behind the couch, crouching low, an object Jason doesn’t immediately recognize in his hand. A second later, Roy launches a book at the younger boy. 

Jason flattens himself on the floor and the book flies over his head. Dick reads? _“You_ get out,” Roy’s voice has gotten hard. 

“You’re the one trespassing,” Jason snarls back. 

Roy straightens comically. “Yeah? So are you.” Jason grabs a picture. 

“Woah,” Roy puts his hands up. “Glass man? Come on?” 

Jason glances at the picture frame and it takes him a moment to comprehend what it is. It’s Dick, Bruce and him. All three smiling. It was taken on the Manor grounds—by Alfred no doubt. Jason can’t tell exactly where on the grounds it was taken. It’s fall in the photo but the leaves haven’t fallen off the trees yet. Jason remembers the photo. He’s sure Dick had been pissed while taking it but the older boy has actually managed to look somewhat happy. Jason remembers the day well. Dick had come to spend the night, but he ended up leaving later that evening. Alfred must have sent the photo still, to Dick. And Dick still framed it and put it up for display. In the living room. Jason’s anger evaporates in an instant. 

“Oh shit, you okay kid?” Roy’s voice has softened and Jason can see him hesitantly approaching out of the corner of his eye. 

Jason realizes his cheeks are wet. He’s crying. His grip tightens on the photo. Roy freezes, ready to duck. Instead Jason launched the photo at the opposite wall, taking dull satisfaction at the sound of the glass breaking into a thousand pieces. 

“You can stay, I was just leaving,” Jason mutters. He shoves past Roy and swings open the door to Dick’s bedroom. The bed is unmade. 

“Did you sleep here last night?” Jason asks, throwing Dick’s closet open. The alarm clock on the bed stand tells Jason it’s already midmorning, half past 10, and Jason realizes he’s already stayed longer than he meant to. Jason grabs a duffel bag that Dick had shoved in a box on the floor labeled ‘blankets.’ 

“And the night before that too. And the night before that. Any idea where Dick is?” Roy asks, his tone light. 

“Gotham,” Jason growls. Roy lets out a low whistle. 

“So, he did go back,” Roy muses. 

“How the hell didn’t you hear me break in?” Jason snaps. Okay, so maybe his anger isn’t gone. 

Roy shrugs. “I’m a deep sleeper. Are you stealing Dick’s stuff?” 

“No,” Jason growls. He pauses. “Yes,” the boy amends. He opens his mouth, ready to come up with an excuse. 

_Dick said it was okay._

_This is actually my stuff I let Dick borrow it._

He closes his mouth. He doesn’t owe Roy an excuse. 

Roy is just nodding. “He keeps extra toothbrushes under the sink. And tiny shampoo bottles.” 

“Tiny shampoo bottles?” Jason repeats, aghast. 

Roy shakes his head. “I know. Who has he become?” 

Jason smirks. “So, what the hell are you doing here?” Jason poses the question like an apology. Roy shrugs and turns away. Now Jason’s eyes narrow and he starts to take in how strange this situation is. 

“What _are_ you doing here?” Jason repeats, now turning to face Roy. Roy has the gall to look guilty, cheeks blushing. 

“Listen, I just needed a place to crash for a few days and who the hell puts a key in a rock on a third-floor apartment?” 

Jason cocks an eyebrow. “He could have at least put it in a fake flower pot or something.” 

Roy groans. “Oh god, Dick is totally the person now who would own flower pots.” 

Jason smiles at that. “Why?” 

“Why does Dick own flower pots?” 

Jason rolls his eyes. He knows Roy is avoiding his question. “Why did you need a place to crash?” 

Anger flares in Roy’s eyes now. The anger is familiar to Jason and he narrows his eyes. 

“You can’t crash at your mansion?” Jason prods again. 

The fire grows and Roy’s jaw tightens. Jason drinks it up. “Why can’t _you_ crash at _your_ mansion?” Roy knows right where the hit back. 

Jason purses his lips. “Why don’t we just not talk?” 

“Good idea,” Roy spits out. He walks out of Dick’s room and seconds later Jason can hear someone going through the cabinets in the kitchen. 

Guilt rises in Jason’s stomach. He sighs and closes his eyes. Oh, he is so going to regret this. 

“Dick keeps all the sugary cereal above the fridge,” he shouts. 

There is a pause. A creak. A cabinet opens and Jason can hear Roy take a box of cereal out. Jason picks up another of Dick’s shirts to throw into the bag and sighs. He puts it down. 

“Grab two bowls,” he calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So _there's_ Jason. If there truly is one constant in the multiverse, it is that Dick Grayson _always_ has cereal.
> 
> I know I said I don't really know Roy at all, but I had a lot of fun writing this chapter.


	18. Meanwhile At The Manor

#### October 31st, 2018  
20:30  
Wayne Manor, Outside Gotham

There are three distinct silences, and they are each killing Dick Grayson in different ways. 

First, there is the silence in the manor, made by things that are lacking. It is the most obvious silence to Dick, in such contrast to the manor he knew growing up. 

_  
_

_“Master Richard,” A shrill British voice echoes in the impossibly large halls of Wayne Manor._

_A ten-year-old Dick Grayson balances on the second-floor stair railing, one leg outstretched over the open foyer, the other holding his slight frame perfectly still. Dick Grayson glances down at the butler, startled. The sudden noise and movement causes him to wobble and he knows he has made a mistake. In a moment, the fear of crashing down the stairs causes Dick to overcorrect and forgets that to his right, only empty air would cushion his fall._

_Dick twists to reach back, hoping to catch the railing with one of his outstretched hands as he goes rushing by, but another, stronger arm catches his own before his feet have even truly left the railing._

_“Woah, there chap,” Bruce grunts, pulling the boy back to solid ground. Bruce glances behind Dick, at the butler still rooted in fear on the first floor. “Don’t worry, I was watching him,” Bruce says with a grimace._

_Dick’s cheeks flush. He hadn’t known Bruce was watching him. He’s worried the older man will be mad and he keeps his gaze shunted away, preparing for a rebuke. He’s only been at the manor a week and tight fear pierces his heart as he worries they will send him away._

_When Dick finally gets the courage to look, the older man is smiling._

_“That was pretty good,” Bruce says. “But watch this.” The man grabs the railing firmly with both hands and Dick wonders for a moment if he is going to fling himself off. But Bruce simply leans forward, lifting his feet off the ground and pulls himself into a handstand on the stair railing. Dick’s eyes grow wide at the familiar showmanship._

_Bruce lifts one of his arms, as Dick had lifted one of his legs before, and the older man glances over at Dick, shooting him a grin,_

_The younger boy laughs, a tinkling sound that echoes the foyer._

_There is an exasperated sigh below. “Master Bruce,” the butler’s voice is filled with false disapproval and Dick can tell he is fighting back a smile of his own. Bruce’s own laughter echoes through the halls of the Manor._

_  
_

The second silence is the one held between the two people, now gathered in the kitchen, cold tea in front of them that they both have refused to touch. This silence is not new. It has been slowly creeping upon them since the night before. In the sixteen hours since, it has only grown stronger, more corporeal. It now hangs between them with a body and distinct shape of its own. 

The silence holds inside it everything the two are unwilling to verbalize, unwilling to discuss. It is built of fear and worry, and it is seasoned with anger. 

_  
_

_“Alfred tell me again what happened,” Barbara’s voice is level, even. If Dick hadn’t known any better, he would have said it was calm. But it is a forced calm. One brought about only by the most potent panic and dread._

_“Master Richard said he was going to check on you,” Alfred begins patiently, not looking the slightest bit perturbed, even though this is the third time the two are making the older man repeat the story._

_“Master Jason didn’t say anything. I – “ Alfred pauses here, though he hadn’t the previous two times. “I was putting away the surgical tape. Master Bruce told Jason to go upstairs.”_

_“Master Jason tried to say something, but Master Bruce told him to leave, to get out of the cave.” Alfred glances at Barbara and his voices is colder when he resumes. “When we went to his room, it was locked. We didn’t . . . we didn’t check it until the morning.”_

_Now Alfred takes a deep breath, the familiarity of the story unsettles Dick. He wants something to change, but it’s hopeless, like rereading a book but expecting a different ending. “Master Bruce said he was going out to look for him.”_

_It helps Alfred to tell the story like this. Only the actions. No emotion. Not the anger and bitterness in the cave that night. Not the stony silence in between Jason leaving and Bruce finally going upstairs. Not the absolute terror of the two men the next morning when they realized Jason had not simply locked the door, but he’d disabled the alarms and snuck out._

_Barbara’s eyes are closed, like she is trying to imagine the scene happening in front of her. She sighs._

_“Okay. Tell it to me again.”_

_  
_

The third silence is more subtle. It is one that only occurs inside Dick’s head. It is the silence of thought. The absence of a working mind. He isn’t, for the first time in his life, running through the facts, the evidence. He isn’t trying to solve a mystery in front of him. He simply finds himself lost in it. 

_  
_

_“What are you thinking about?” Dick asks, pushing away the book Jason has pulled up in front of his face. Dick figures it is safe to do, Jason has been staring at the same page for the last half hour, eyes slowly glazing over. Dick can almost hear the younger boy’s thoughts cycling through his head._

_Jason is resting his good foot on Dick’s shoulder as the two sprawl across the couch, a walking cast still on Jason’s other leg. That, and the dark red cut still healing on the boy’s hairline are the only visible signs of why Jason is inside tonight, four months after the two boys boarded a plane together to Ethiopia. Dick can’t help but let his eyes catch on the scar, his breath hitching. A new wave of guilt washes over him, just as it does every time he looks at Jason these days. It’s why his rare visits are exclusively at night. When he knows Jason will be home with Alfred, and no one else._

_Jason shrugs, not meeting Dick’s eyes and this answers Dick’s question all the same._

_Words catch in his throat, but he must say them. He has said them before. Cried them. Yelled them. But never to the boy in front of him. Not while he was awake._

_“Jason,” Dick’s voice is thick and the younger boy glances at him with surprise._

_“I’m so sorry,” Dick says, wanting to reach out and touch the scar, touch the scars he knows now riddle Jason’s body. But his hands won’t move. All the same, anger flares in Jason’s eyes._

_“Sorry?” The boy echoes, and while his face is angry, his voice is soft. Dick clings to the voice, closing his eyes. He doesn’t deserve the softness. He deserves the anger. This is his fault, his fault, his fault. He should have stopped Jason. Or gone with him that morning. A million things Dick should have done run through his mind. But he didn’t do any of them._

_“Dick,” Jason is grabbing him now and Dick realizes his cheeks are wet and he has been crying. Jason meets Dick’s eyes and the anger that was there before is gone._

_“Thank you,” Jason says, a smile playing on his lips. “I was thinking about how you saved my life.”_

_  
_

And so, Dick wanders the manor. Barbara left last night, saying she would “look into things,” whatever that meant. She has no idea where to look. Dick has no idea where to look. Because if Jason Todd does not want to be found, Dick will not be able to find him. 

Bruce trained him well. 

It isn’t until the following evening, when Alfred finally heads back down to the cave, all upstairs work finished for the evening, when Dick realizes he has to act. 

When the silence breaks. 

Dick strolls into the cave and if Alfred is surprised by the purpose by which the younger boy walks, he does not show it. Dick grabs his Nightwing suit, takes one of the bikes, and without a word climbs onto it, allowing the roar of the engine to fill the air. 

Alfred simply watches him. 

Dick pushes the kickstand up. When finally, the last silence breaks. 

“Master Richard.” Dick glances over. He thinks Alfred might try to stop him. He wonders if Alfred knows where he is going. Alfred simply purses his lips. “Be safe.” 

Dick nods and disappears into the darkness of the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight change in chapter format, hope everyone is cool with it!
> 
> Hm, I guess we all find different meaning in the words 'Get out.' To me, they mean a fantastic movie directed by Jordan Peele. If only _that_ had been what Bruce was talking about.


	19. The Search

#### October 31st, 2018  
21:00  
Clock Tower, Gotham

Barbara throws the broken keyboard at the wall, not even bothering to try and aim it at the bin across the room. She listens to it shatter against the hollow drywall and it only makes her feel worse. She considers going over and picking up the broken pieces but part of her wants to leave them. To allow the destruction, the mess to remain. This place shouldn’t look normal. Not when things were so entirely un-normal. 

If Barbara hadn’t turned around, simmering with anger at the broken keyboard on the floor, she might not have seen him. Even looking at the window, she’s surprised she does see. Because she knows if she wasn’t meant to, she wouldn’t. 

But there he is, across the street, outside her window. Waiting. 

Barbara goes over and unlocks the window silently, before she can think about what this means. 

She turns away, going back to her desk, and pulls a new keyboard out of storage, reattaching it to the computer. 

She _hears_ him come in. She’s not supposed to hear this. She has never heard it before and it’s an unfamiliar sound. Broken. Like the keyboard at his feet. 

She turns to see him pick up the pieces and toss them into the bin. 

Barbara looks at the clock. It’s almost 9 PM now. Edwin Vinson Rowe died over 40 hours ago. 

Batman pulls off his cowl and Barbara cannot process how wrong this is. She wants to tell him to put it back on. To take the pieces from the trash and scatter them back on the floor. To leave silently through the window and go back into the night. 

But Barbara cannot make herself move. 

Bruce is waiting for her to say something. 

Barbara has no idea what to say. 

“Jason’s going to be okay.” Bruce looks at her. It takes Barbara a moment to realize it was her who spoke. The look on Bruce’s face . . . Barbara has never seen him like this. 

No, that’s not true. She _has_ seen him like this before. Once. In a memory that she had forgotten she had, but one that bubbles to the surface now. A memory of bright lights and antibacterial spray. Of steady mechanical beeping and the low whispers between the doctors and her father. And then, not often enough to stick in her drug riddled mind, Barbara sees Bruce. In the pale light of visiting hours, but more often, in the night. Coming in the darkness like he has now. Through the window, but always silent. Pulling off his cowl. 

And this face. 

This unfamiliar face of fear, but a layered fear. Fear for her, fear for Jason, fear of the unknown. And fear of the uncontrollable. That was the biggest one. This face of knowing that this creature Bruce Wayne created was absolutely helpless in this situation. 

“Jason is going to be okay,” Barbara says again, firmer now. She wills herself to believe it. She doesn’t have any clue where Jason is right now. What he is thinking or how he is feeling. But she would be okay. And Jason must be okay. So, he will be. 

Barbara expects Bruce to argue. To reject this blind faith. To counter her unsupported allegation with facts and reality and evidence. 

But he looks at her, and that face is gone now, hidden behind a neutrality that she now knows takes great effort to portray, and he nods. 

He pulls his cowl up and turns, without a sound climbing through the window and dropping into the night. 

A breeze rushes through Barbara’s apartment and she rolls over to close the window. As she pushes her wheels closer, she feels a small _bump_ beneath her. 

She glances down at the broken key crushed beneath her chair. 

She tosses it into the bin and shuts the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Bruce spotting!
> 
> Sorry this chapter is rather short. Simply a check in. I suppose the search is not going well.


	20. The Patrol

#### October 31st, 2018  
21:18  
Various Rooftops and Quite a Bit of Trouble, Gotham

Dick is feeling a little weird. There's the fact that his head is still swimming, the past 24 hours running on repeat, and then there's the fact that he’s waiting outside a 14-year old girl’s bedroom, hoping he gets lucky. Oh god, he didn’t it mean it like _that._

Dick checks his phone. A call to Jason is still running through. It is his fourteenth call that night. Voicemail is full. He suspects between him, Alfred, Barbara, maybe even Bruce, they have filled the voicemail box a while back. No response. His texts have gone unanswered as well. 

If Jason is smart, and he is smart, he’s long since ditched his cell phone. But it’s something. And Dick has to try anything. 

Movement below catches Dick’s eye and he slides his phone back into a pocket on his thigh. 

A girl, dressed head to toe in purple, climbs silently out of her window. Dick slowly rises from his crouch on the fire escape next to her, hoping not to startle the girl. She doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Uh, Spoiler, right?” Nightwing asks. The girl stops. Her head drops. There is a long pause and Nightwing opens his mouth to say something more, but Spoiler puts a finger up, signaling silence. 

She dramatically looks up. “Why me,” she says to the sky. The familiarity of the action rocks Dick for a moment. 

“Are you done?” Nightwing asks, fighting a smile. The girl shrugs. She starts climbing the fire escape to the roof and Nightwing scrambles to keep up. “So, listen, I don’t know if you remember me—“ 

“Nightwing, caped crusader of Bludhaven—minus the cape.” Spoiler pauses. “And the Bludhaven. Apparent friend of Robin, which makes you cool. Also, friend of Batman, which makes me nervous.” Spoiler pulls herself onto the roof. Nightwing jumps up after her. 

He isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “I’m just—why don’t we forget about that. And start over.” 

Spoiler tilts her head. “So now you are just some stranger waiting outside my window?” 

Dick sighs. “Now I’m just Nightwing. From Bludhaven.” 

Spoiler seems to consider this. “Okay, Nightwing from Bludhaven. What’s up?” 

“I’ve been doing this for a while,” he began. 

“Three years,” Spoiler cuts in. 

Nightwing shrugs. “I mean the whole mask thing.” 

Spoiler seems interested now. “I thought Nightwing appeared only three years ago.” 

“He did. I was someone else before that, it’s not important. What I was trying to say was that I’ve been in this business and while. And it helps to have friends.” 

“So, I should consider you a friend?” Spoiler says. 

“Patrol with me tonight,” Dick offers. He hadn’t planned on doing that but the words come out. Spoiler looks like she is about to say something sarcastic in response but she stops herself. 

“Okay,” she says instead. 

* * *

Spoiler can think of a lot of reasons a grown man would want to hang out with a fourteen-year-old girl alone in the middle of the night, and none of them are good. 

Luckily, that doesn’t seem to be an issue with Nightwing. And Spoiler is starting to get the feeling that he’s still pretty young himself. Maybe still a teenager, or at the most, early twenties. 

“How old are you?” Steph blurts out, weighing the grapple gun that Nightwing has given her in her hand. It’s surprisingly light and he shows her where to clip it to her costume. _Just for emergencies,_ he had said. They would apparently be traveling without the assistance of the gun tonight, but he wanted her to have it in case. Spoiler isn’t sure what to think of that. 

“Lesson one, don’t fire that at anyone,” Nightwing says and Steph hopes he can tell she is rolling her eyes under her mask. 

“Why don’t we just use these tonight,” Spoiler asks, turning the gun over in her hand. Nightwing showed her the basics, how to fire, release and retract, and she was itching to use it trying to swing from one building to the next. 

Nightwing hesitates. “You’ll need more practice with it, first. You have to learn how to fall first, and when to shoot it. Trust me, it’s more difficult than it looks. Tonight, we’ll stay on our feet.” 

Steph glances at him out of the corner of her eye. What did he mean she would need more practice, _first?_ Like, she would one day get the practice? She tries not to read too much into the statement. _It was probably just some off the hand remark._

“Nineteen,” the vigilante says after a long moment of silence in which Steph clips the gun to her waist, resisting the urge to pull it out and fire it into the nearest building. Steph barely hears him and she’s thrown for a moment by his delayed response. 

Steph does the mental math in her head. So, he was around 16 when he started being Nightwing. And he’d said he was _someone else_ before that, whatever that meant. He must have been young then, like her, when he started fighting crime. For some reason, the realization reassures Steph more than anything else. 

“So, you’re ‘friends’ with Batman then?” Spoiler asks, thinking the answer to the question is obvious. Really, she just wants to keep the older vigilante talking. 

Something passes in Nightwing’s face that she doesn’t recognize. “I’m not sure Batman has ‘friends,’ but yeah, basically,” he says. 

Steph nods. “And Robin?” she asks, trying to keep her voice neutral, thinking back to what Tim said was in the officer’s notes. Something definitely flickers across Nightwing’s face this time, but Steph still can’t identify the emotion. 

“Yeah,” is all Nightwing says. 

Steph opens her mouth, ready to press more, when a cry pierces the night. 

“East, one block up,” Nightwing tells her like she’s supposed to know where the hell east is. 

It doesn’t matter, Steph spots the guy as he tears out of the alley, bag in his hand. Nightwing must have good ears, assuming the direction the guy is running from _is_ east. The man hesitates at the mouth of the alleyway for only a moment, deciding which way to run and Spoiler races over to the edge of the building. She wonders, for a moment, if this might classify as an emergency and considers pulling the grapple gun from her belt. Before she can decide either way, Nightwing’s hand is on her arm, not holding her back, simply resting there. 

“Hold on,” he says, relaxed and patient. Spoiler glances over. The man has chosen his direction now and takes off the opposite way, sprinting into the distance. 

“We have _stop_ him,” Steph gestures to the man running away like somehow Nightwing has missed this fact. She means to put a harsh edge to her tone, but instead her voice tightens with surprise. 

Nightwing purses his lips, taking in her taught stance. “Wait,” he says, the man’s figure is still visible but getting smaller in the night. 

_“Wait?”_ Spoiler hisses. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. What the hell do Batman and Robin, or Nightwing and whoever, _do_ every night if they don't even _try_ to stop crime. 

Nightwing gives her a look and any words dry up in her throat. It’s a cold stare, so different from the easy-going vibe he had been giving off before and Steph tries not to shrink back. 

“There’s a victim in that alley,” Nightwing says, nodding a block up from where the man had come from. “She might need help. Check on her,” he says, and Steph knows it’s an order. She has to bite her tongue. What the hell? Steph just _knows_ he's sidelining her, and she wants to jump down and take after the thief, screw what Nightwing says. 

Before she can say anything, Nightwing turns to watch the man for a brief moment and then stands up, crawling silently after him on the rooftops. He doesn’t jump down, instead running along the crown of the building until he is nearly beside the thief. The man has already slowed to a brisk walk and and his arms now move strangely around his waist. Belatedly, Steph realizes he carries a gun, tucked in the band of his pants. 

Nightwing’s letting the man tire himself out, letting him think he has gotten away. Because a nervous man pulls the gun he has on anyone. A calm man forgets he’s packing. 

Steph forces herself to move and stop gaping. She jumps down the balconies that line the side of the building and jogs over to the alley the man had exited from. 

_There’s a victim in that alley._ Steph had _known_ that, but she wasn’t sure she’d thought about it until Nightwing pointed it out. The woman hasn’t come out yet and Steph can’t hear anything else from the alley. She might be hurt. 

As Steph peers into the backstreet she sees a dark figure crumpled on the floor and for a moment, Steph’s heart leaps into her throat. She rushes over. _Shit. Oh my god. If this woman is dead because I hesitated . . ._ The woman looks up as Steph’s shadow looms ahead of her. 

“It’s okay,” Steph says, voice low. “I’m here to help.” 

The woman looks up at her. Steph wants to smack herself. She’s stopped muggings before. Plenty of them. She’s stopped purse thieves and even a few petty burglars. But after chasing after attackers or scaring away thieves, Steph had always left. 

_There’s a victim in that alley,_ Nightwing had said. He’d waited, seeing if she would come out and she hadn’t. 

The woman seems to relax when she hears Steph’s voice, a female voice, maybe another reason Nightwing sent her. 

“Are you alright,” Steph asks, bending down in front of the woman. The scrapes on the woman’s face and hands appear superficial, likely from being thrown against the wall or to the floor. 

The woman nods, looking around, as if she can’t figure out why she is on the ground in an alley and, after a moment, she jumps up quickly. 

Steph stands slower, making sure the woman doesn’t topple over. 

“Spoiler?” A voice echoes from the alley’s entrance and the woman flinches again, taking a step behind Steph. 

Spoiler doesn’t turn away from the woman, trying to catch her eyes even though there is no way the woman knows where Steph is looking from behind the mask. “It’s okay,” Steph reassures the woman. “It’s only Nightwing. He’s with me.” 

The woman nods and but tension hasn’t left her body and Steph tries to think of something to say to the woman to make her feel safer. 

Nightwing walks over, holding out the woman’s purse and puts and easy disarming smile on his face. 

“Here, take this too,” Nightwing says, giving something else to the woman and Steph takes a moment to recognize it. It’s pepper spray. “Do you think you’ll be able to get home safe?” Nightwing asks and the woman takes the pepper spray in her hands, griping it tightly. 

“I – uh, yeah,” she says. She looks over at both Steph and Nightwing, making eye contact for the first time. “Thank you,” she says. 

Nightwing smiles. “No worries. And be careful. Sixth is better lit at this time of night, it might be a safer route.” He says. 

The woman nods. “I don’t – I don’t live far,” she has a tiny smile now and Steph can see her eyes become more focused. The woman shuffles away from them and then glances back. “Seriously, um, thank you,” she says again, and Steph smiles herself. The woman turns the corner of the alley, still gripping the pepper spray Nightwing had given her. 

Steph glances over at the older vigilante, nearly rocking on the balls of her feet. She has a grin that doesn’t match the situation spread across her face. 

“Alright, what now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's safe to say that Spoiler's first impression of Nightwing is that he's a bit of a Dick. Luckily, first impressions can change.


	21. The Other Side of the Coin

#### October 31st, 2018  
21:48  
Montoya’s Dealership, Gotham

Tim is feeling guilty. He lied to Steph. 

Okay, that wasn’t fair. He just hadn’t told her the truth. It still feels an awful lot like a lie. 

At the time, Tim told himself he was holding back because he wasn’t sure what he had just stolen. When he had snuck into the officer’s desk to get his personal notes, something else caught Tim’s eye. It was an evidence bag. 

An evidence bag, in an officer’s personal desk. And it wasn’t just the location that made it strange. For one, the bag was hand-marked _EVR._

Edwin Vinson Rowe. 

Another thing, it wasn’t sealed. It was like the evidence was _asking_ to get copied and stolen. At least, that was the excuse Tim was going with for now. 

It had been a flash drive. It hadn’t taken long for Tim to copy its contents but it took Tim the rest of the day before he finally pulled up the files on his laptop. 

Tim had never stolen evidence from the GCPD like this before. Stolen evidence _for_ them, sure. Stolen _files_ from them, of course. But evidence? Evidence hidden away in an officer’s desk? This felt bigger. 

And it _was_ bigger. Tim stares at his computer screen, the face of a man he has already stitched together stares back at him. Tim supposes it isn’t surprising that someone else was able to use multiple videos from the cameras in the area of Joseph Marino’s murder to figure out that it was Skinny Vinnie who killed him. But the GCPD hadn’t gotten this evidence in a crime lab. This was the flash drive that the officer’s notes said they found in Vinnie’s hand. 

The flash drive the notes said was given to Vinnie by one of the four men currently in GCPD holding cells, courtesy of Batman. 

The meeting that night, Skinny Vinnie was getting this flash drive back. 

Back from who? Well, that was the question. No one was talking. Not the four men apprehended and certainly not Skinny Vinnie. 

Tim’s phone buzzes, making him jump. It’s almost 10 and he figures it’s Steph, wondering where he is. 

He glances at the phone, grabbing his hoodie and pulling it on. 

_Patrolling w/ Nightwing 2nite. Weird – he was w8ing 4 me. Thought I’d pump him for some intel. Friday?_ And then there are two coffee emojis and Tim knows she means Monet’s. 

_As long as both of those coffees are for me,_ Tim sends back. He doesn’t need to tell her to be safe or smart. She knows. And she will be. But Tim agrees with Steph. This is weird. He isn’t sure why Nightwing had been waiting for her but it makes Tim nervous. Two run ins with Batman in a week and now Nightwing is waiting for Steph? 

Tim shakes off the worry. Whatever Nightwing is up to, Tim is pretty sure Steph will be safe. Probably the safest she could be out on the rooftops of Gotham at night. 

Still, what Nightwing is doing out . . . so soon after . . . 

No. Tim can’t . . . just no. 

Tim glances back at the face of Edwin Rowe on his laptop. A moot investigation now. The man is dead. But now Tim is facing an even bigger mystery and he doesn’t even have Steph to lean on. 

Tim takes a deep breath. He grabs his camera and pulls himself out of his window. The night is young, and he has a lot to do. 

* * *

Tim shifts again, trying to find a warmer pocket of air. He should have brought a second jacket. Tim is usually running around most of the night and doesn’t need to layer up, in fact he might even shed a layer or two as to not overheat. But on nights like tonight, where it’s mostly surveillance, sitting and watching and waiting, Tim wishes he had brought something heavier. 

He perches on the rooftop across the street from Montoya’s Dealership. The owner is Carl Rodney, but he’d thought 'Montoya' sounded better for a car dealership. The place in front of Tim is more than a car shop, however. The overstaffed maintenance crews in the back did more than simply change oil or fill tires. They also supply all of the Maroni dealers this side of the docks. 

And Tim has spent the better part of the last hour waiting for those dealers to come by. 

It wasn’t a guess. Skinny Vinnie was a well-known dealer and pretty respected too. Claimed to have never been arrested, which in some places would give him no reputation. But the length of time Vinnie had been dealing, the reputation earned him almost legend status. 

And now he was dead. It's been just long enough for the rumor to solidify into fact and the dealers will come here, like homing pigeons, looking for information. Looking for Rodney to reassure them that this wasn’t the start of a gang war. That Skinny Vinnie hadn’t been killed by some rival dealer. Maybe the Maroni brothers had offed Vinnie themselves. That was the sort of reassurance the three dealers who showed up just a couple minutes later were hoping for. 

Tim snaps a couple photos of them as they walk up. Two, Tim already has in his archives, but he would add the third later tonight. An unintended benefit of tonight’s surveillance. 

A mystery man, Carlos Garcia, and Eddie Janson. Tim likes Carlos. He sells in a back alley behind Broad street and mostly keeps his business to himself. He doesn’t sell to kids and he has a little brother he walks to the bus stop every morning. 

Eddie is another story. Tim hasn’t seen him since he moved away from the Narrows more than sixth months ago. Eddie has a mouth that is always getting him into trouble, and he stares too long at girls half his age. 

The man Tim doesn’t know is doing all the talking as the three approach the back of Montoya’s but he doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that neither Eddie nor Carlos are paying him any mind. Tim can’t hear them, he’s too far out, but as they approach the rear of the dealership, the recording device Tim planted earlier that evening begins to pick up their voices. 

“. . . and the kid is looking at me like I just pissed on his cheerios— “ 

“Familiar with that look are you John?” Carlos cuts in. 

All three of the men laugh, but it's strained with nerves. 

Rodney spots the men as they come up to the back door and Tim can see him through the glass wall of his ridiculously large office, shaking his head as he gets up to go meet the three dealers walking up the the steps of the maintenance entrance. Tim knows Rodney always follows the rules: no dealers in house after hours. But Rodney isn't too strict as to send them away. He'll talk to them, he always does. He's good like that. 

Tim also isn’t surprised the three have came together. He supposes they really do think the Maroni brothers killed Vinnie. 

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Tim can hear Rodney’s voice now, loud and angry, but not at all surprised. He knew, like Tim had, that they would come. 

“Cut the crap, Rod,” Eddie hisses and Rodney closes the back door behind him, though any legitimate employees, and there aren’t many, have long since left. As far as Tim can tell, only Rodney is still at the dealership. “Vinnie’s dead.” 

Eddie’s voice isn’t sad or scared or regretful. He simply states Vinnie’s death like the fact it is. It’s asking too much of the man to feel something for someone he hardly knew, and especially feel something for someone like Vinnie, a mean dealer who had been in the game far longer than Eddie, someone who he’d hardly liked. As far as Eddie was concerned, Vinnie had long since made his bed and knew full well what sort of death likely awaited him. 

Rodney does sigh. He at least looks regretful. Probably because he would have to deal with a minor power vacuum in Vinnie’s territory now. A handful of smaller dealers all scrambling to take over the new vacancy. 

Dead dealers were a bitch. 

“I’m aware. Still doesn’t explain what the hell you three are doing here. We haven’t finished bagging the last shipment, Bash’s the only one who gets an early delivery. For everyone else, pick up is still Sunday morning.” There is silence and Tim struggles to catch a better glimpse of the expressions on any of the men's faces. Their words are terse and angry, but Tim can't tell if it is from the underlying tension, or a product of the conversation. 

“What’d he do then?” Carlos’ voice is so quiet Tim almost doesn’t hear it. He sees Rodney shoot him an annoyed look and Eddie steps forward, closer to Rodney. 

“Listen, the kids are getting nervous out there. We don’t care why he’s dead, just tell us what to tell everyone,” Eddie hisses. 

Rodney shakes his head and Tim can see his shoulders shaking, like he’s laughing, but Tim can’t hear anything on the recording. It must be too quiet. 

“We didn’t kill him,” Rodney finally says. He shakes his head, like he finds it amusing they all jumped to this conclusion. “The Bat did.” 

The three dealers have different reactions. Eddie starts laughing, Carlos curses and looks down, shaking his head, and the third dealer – John – snaps his head up to look at Rodney, as if he is expecting the other man to admit he’s kidding. 

“You thought I had him killed?” Rodney asks, still shaking with laughter. Eddie has calmed down now too, most of the laughter probably a release of tension. 

Eddie shrugs his shoulders now. “Come on, we all know Vinnie was actin’ strange the past month,” Eddie gestures vaguely. “Figured it was something’.” 

Rodney grows serious for a moment and shakes his head. “That man _was_ up to something, I swear to God. Bat probably did us a favor, really. I warned Umberto about that motherfucker. Shady as hell these past few weeks. Snooping around here all the time.” 

John shoves his hands in his pockets. “Well if you warned Umberto about him . . .” he trails off but Rodney is shaking his head. 

“That’s not how we do things kid,” Rodney says. 

Carlos shifts. “Well it isn’t how _Umberto_ does things.” Rodney shoots a look at Carlos that Tim can read even from his remote position. It says _shut up._

“Pino neither. Not even times like these would create bed fellows _that_ strange.” 

“Even if Vinnie was hanging out at Cowen’s?” Carlos pushes. 

Rodney’s look turns into a glare. “Even then,” he replies evenly. 

Eddie and Carlos seem reassures by this but Tim can see John still looks uncomfortable. 

Tim is uncomfortable now too. Cowen’s is a bar on the other side of the docks and not one Tim has ever had the occasion of becoming familiar with. Rumors were always vague about the place, but it wasn’t somewhere to bring your family. 

Rodney shrugs uncomfortably. “’Sides, he was only seen there once. By _one_ person. _That_ was hardly what worried me. I don’t mind the freelancing.” 

“You mean the Marino kid?” Eddie asks this time. The three have relaxed now slipping seamlessly into gossip. 

Rodney snorts. “I don’t give a shit about that boy either. As far as I’m concerned, the kid got what was comin’ for him. We don’t need more fucking rapists on these streets.” 

“Here, here,” Carlos shakes his own head. Eddie doesn’t seem bothered, and John has an appalled look on his face. 

“You been in my seat long enough you can tell when someone is taking orders from someone else.” Rodney seems to realize what he just admitted and tries to hide it with a shrug. “Vinnie was actin’ weird, that’s all. Got into it with a bag girl, actin’ jumpy. That sort of shit.” 

Eddie raises and eyebrow. “A bag girl?” he echoes. This is news to him but Carlos nods next to him. 

“I heard about that. Jimmy said she accused him of messing with product.” 

Now both of Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Shit. Taking a cut?” 

Carlos shakes his head. “The opposite. Adding shit. I don’t know. Jimmy let the girl go. Dumb bitch. Apparently the two had history and Vinnie was trying to get back with his girl, you know her Ed.” 

Eddie nods. “Monica.” 

Rodney is nodding too but with a vacant look that tells Tim he hadn’t heard the details of this story. 

“Well, whatever Vinnie was into, it’s over now. Good riddance.” Eddie says. The other three men seem to agree on this and after a little more idle chatter, the dealers start to bid Rodney farewell. 

Tim glances at his watch. It’s well past three and he still has to cross the shipyards to get home. 

Tim waits until the dealers leave the property and another half hour for Rodney also retire for the night, and he slips down to collect the listening device, stashed in the bushes, lest he leave it behind to be found and force Rodney to do something truly drastic, like increase security. 

Tim’s mind races with a thousand scenarios as he ventures into the darkness. 

At least he’ll have plenty to think about as he treks home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim reminds everyone that there is an investigation still going on.


	22. To Follow

#### November 2nd, 2018  
01:20  
Somewhere Downtown, Gotham

Steph lets the open air of Gotham whip across her face, thinking about how very different it feels compared with the dank smells she always remembers growing up surrounded by, and trying very hard not to feel guilty. 

She retracts the grapple gun as she lands next to Nightwing. Nightwing noticeably _hadn’t_ asked for the gun back after the first night and spent most of the first few hours of their ‘patrol’ tonight showing her how to ‘safely’ use it. A lesson consisting basically of ‘shoot then jump,’ which seemed simple and easy but was decidedly not. When she watches Nightwing leap from building and fire the gun mid-plummet, she decides she doesn’t mind running across the rooftops and ‘keeping her feet on the ground.’ But Steph has at least gotten better at using it, her swings markedly smoother than the first few times. 

Steph doesn’t want to feel guilty. She doesn’t think she should. Tim had certainly told her she shouldn’t. But she does. She texted him last night to tell him she was going out with Nightwing again and that maybe she would have to push Monet’s until Saturday, and his response had been completely normal. No guilt required. 

But _shouldn’t_ she feel guilty? Not if it’s only for another night, right? _Is it only for another night?_

Glancing at Nightwing now, Steph wonders if she can ask the masked man. What is he up to? He’d spent all of the previous night teaching her, explaining fighting moves, showing her patrol routes. How to be safe, what do it a guy pulls a knife. A gun. 

Some of it, Steph thought was common sense. But she wasn’t about to tell the guy that. He was . . . _teaching_ her. And Steph’s breath catches as she thinks the words. That’s all she’s ever wanted, right? 

And now she’s terrified of asking Nightwing when it’s going to end. 

“Spoiler,” Nightwing’s voice breaks through her thoughts and she recognizes the tone. “That van,” he says, and Steph leans over to see where he is pointing. It’s a rather nondescript blue van with dark windows and a faded logo on the side Steph can’t quite make out but she thinks it says Concord Electric. It looks like it hasn’t been moved in weeks. 

“Yeah?” Steph prompts when Nightwing doesn’t continue. 

“It’s a police surveillance van,” Nightwing states with absolute certainty. Steph glances at him in surprise and then looks closer at the van. There is nothing remarkable about it, in fact, she thinks it has a flat tire. The windows are dark, but all the cars have dark windows and it’s the dead of night. 

Steph narrows her eyes. “How do you know?” she asks, suspicious. Maybe he’s pulling her leg, trying to see how gullible she is. 

“Concord Electric doesn’t supply electricity to this side of town. They only operate south of the river and in the Gotham Heights,” Nightwing says casually, attention already being drawn elsewhere. 

“Did you . . . memorize the Gotham electric grid?” Steph asks, surprised. It sounds exactly like something Tim would do. In fact, Steph wonders if it is something that Tim has done. 

Nightwing shrugs. “Sure,” he says, like this is a normal thing people do in their free time. 

“Have you done this before?” Spoiler asks abruptly. 

Nightwing glances over and she can tell now that his eyebrows are scrunched in confusion under his mask. “What?” he asks. 

Spoiler waves her hand. “You know . . .” she starts but trails off. She wants to say, ‘mentored someone,’ but speaking the words are too scary, lest he deny them. She hesitates a moment. “Taught this stuff,” she settles on, but her heart still skips a beat when she asks. 

Nightwing looks surprised and hesitates, like he himself is trying to decipher what she’s really asking. Steph holds her breath. 

Nightwing shakes his head. “Not really,” he replies cautiously. 

There is something extremely unsatisfying about this answer and Steph tries to bite her tongue. Nightwing’s already standing, looking to hop onto the next building. 

There is something about the way the older boy moves, or perhaps it is simply that he is always moving, that confuses Steph. She almost wants to ask if he’s a meta-human, but she isn’t sure that’s polite. He acts like the rules of gravity are merely guidelines that don’t apply to him, flipping through the air, even when he doesn’t have to. 

Steph glances back at the blue van suspiciously. There is a thick antenna at the base of the truck and a smaller grouping sticking up at the front. When Steph looks closely, she can almost imagine movement inside. 

She glances suspiciously after Nightwing, already two roofs away. 

Dammit, she was going to have to look up the city’s electric grid when she got home. 

* * *

Spoiler had been silent for most of night, taking Dick’s advice solemnly, like she was making a mental recording of everything Dick said. He tried not to feel any pressure by that, but he did. Immense pressure. He almost wanted to end every lesson with ‘but don’t take my word for it.’ But he was here because he wanted her to take his word. Right? 

He can tell she keeps biting her tongue, wanting to ask more questions, but every time she stops herself. At least, she had been stopping herself . . . until now. 

It’s early in the morning and Dick is thinking of telling her they should wrap up. They would still have to go all the back to the Narrows, and then Dick had to swing back across town to Barbara’s where he’s been staying. 

But all these thoughts are interrupted by a clear and strong voice cutting through his thoughts. 

“Seriously,” Spoiler asks, her tone harsh and the expression Dick imagines she wears on her face, well it’s achingly familiar. It’s Babs’ expression. Babs’ tone. When she was out here, on these same rooftops with him in her own purple suit, accented with yellow. 

_What are you doing, pixie-boots?_

“What are you doing?” Spoiler hasn’t moved since they had stopped so Dick could explain the sightlines on the downtown branch of Gotham’s First Bank and while the question is unprompted, Dick knows what she means. It’s a question he’s watched rattle around in her brain all patrol and he is only surprised it’s taken her this long to ask. 

Dick tries to hold her gaze but looks away. He keeps his eyes trained in front of him, watching the scattered traffic of the street below. He hates himself for it, but it’s easier to speak. “A year ago, I almost killed my brother,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. He tries to clear it, swallowing before he continues. 

“He needed someone, and I almost wasn’t there for him. And he got hurt. Badly. And I hurt a lot of other people. And every time I think about it, I feel so guilty for not helping him sooner. For not being there sooner, for not stopping him.” Dick pauses. He’s apologized to Alfred, to Jason, to Barbara. Even to Bruce. But he’s never admitted to the next part. 

“But then I feel this immense wave of relief. Because I know that if I hadn’t been there _at all,_ if he hadn’t felt like he could ask for help in the first place . . . I don’t think he would be here today.” 

Dick whispers the last part, like he is scared of saying it out loud. Jason has told Dick before that the older boy saved his life, but it had been hard to believe at first. He’d _let Jason go alone._ Jason had asked to go alone, just have Dick wait at the hotel, and even though he knew he was supposed to look out for Jason, the older boy agreed. Dick remembers waiting in that hotel, conflicted, unsure what was the right thing to do. Even when Dick had made the decision and left the hotel, tracking Jason down, he still hadn’t been sure it was the right decision. 

The right decision _would_ have been to insist that Jason not go alone in the first place. That Jason not go to Ethiopia at all. The right decision would have been to make him feel welcome the second he put on the Robin costume. But the right decision was also to leave the hotel that night and track down Jason and pull his body away from an explosive ridden building. 

“That was like, _super_ vague,” Steph says, a quizzical, but neutral look on her face. 

Dick sighs and turns back toward her, shaking his head. “Yeah, sorry. Consequence of mask work,” he says. 

Steph seems to consider this for a moment, and she falls quiet. Dick thinks the conversation is over as the minutes of silence stretch longer. 

“You saved his life,” Steph says quietly. Dick’s throat catches. It’s the first time someone other than Jason has said this to him. 

“I regret some things about that night,” Dick says, surprised when his voice cracks. “But I can’t regret what happened, because it ended with him alive. And I’ll never be sorry for that.” 

Steph is quiet another moment. “Is Robin your brother?” she asks, her voice so low that Dick almost doesn’t hear it. He’s startled, but maybe he shouldn’t be. What other conclusion was she supposed to come to? 

“Yeah,” Dick huffs. Steph tilts her head again and Dick knows she is considering asking him something else. She seems to disregard the thought and shake off the question and as curious as Dick is, he’s thankful she doesn’t press. 

Steph turns her attention back to the street and Dick can feel himself relax. When she looks back over, she has a grin on her face. 

“So, that police surveillance van,” she starts. “That was bullshit right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to explain Dick's guilt is hard, because even though he is known for being the emotional one, Dick is still a pretty logical guy. But sometimes why we feel guilty isn't logical at all.
> 
> Anyways, Steph is so much fun to write.


	23. Finally, Some Goddamn Answers

#### November 2nd, 2018  
16:20  
Blackwood Projects, Gotham

Tim knows he is forgetting _something._ It isn’t the forged note to his school claiming he has strep throat; he sent that yesterday in the library. It isn’t the apology text he sent to Steph, begging out of Monet’s; though part of him still doesn’t know why he doesn’t want her involved. Maybe the mystery is too fluid, too indistinct, too difficult to articulate why it bothers him so much. Who cares who was blackmailing a dead man? He was _dead._ Let his secrets die with him. 

The day hadn’t started badly. Tim was able to get into Montoya’s Dealership employee records fairly easy, something he has been wanting to do for a while, simply needing a case to justify spending a whole day running the program. Tim found only two employees let go in the last week, the time period Rodney claimed Vinnie was acting strange. Only one of them was a girl, the bag girl. Young, if you counted young as 27. Most men in this business wouldn’t, but Tim still thought she was young. Jenae Romano. She was pretty, which was probably what got her the job at Montoya’s off site warehouse, counting and bagging cocaine for one of the biggest crime families in Gotham. It’s also probably what got her mixed up with Vinnie. 

It was probably what gave her the black eye and the split lip Tim saw as she opened the door to the tiny apartment in crime alley Tim had spent the whole morning tracking back to her. The bruises were faded, and the only thing left of the split lip was a tiny scab, swelling long since gone down. Tim should have figured Jimmy wouldn’t have just fired the girl and let her take a pink slip to the unemployment office, but seeing the bruises had made his perfectly planned cover story fly out of his head and that was when he blurted out, 

“I’m here about Vinnie.” 

The girl’s eyes narrow. “Sorry kid can’t help ya,” she says, swinging the door to slam it shut. 

Tim reaches out and catches it just in time, trying to hold it open without appearing intimidating. It doesn’t matter. One look at his slight, short frame, messy hair and tired eyes, and no one would think ‘I better watch out for this kid.’ Luckily, Tim knows how to use the underestimation to his benefit. 

“No, wait please,” Tim says, throwing desperation into his voice. It isn’t hard. He _is_ desperate. Tim glances into her apartment and sees something on the floor. A small plush tiger, one that comes with a kid’s meal at a fast food restaurant. “Vinnie’s my uncle. Please. He never came home a few nights ago and my mom and I gotta make rent. It’s just us, and my mom too sick to work right, and we’re gonna lose the apartment, and . . .” Tim's voice cracks and his cheeks flush, but he glances down, like the blush was because he was embarrassed to admit that much. 

The force on the door lessens and Tim risks glancing up at the woman, Jenae. She’s hesitant, like she still doesn’t want to help, but Tim knows his story did the trick, she also doesn’t want to slam the door in his face. He can work with this. 

“I can’t help you kid,” she says again, but softer this time, like she regrets the words. 

“I just need help finding Vinnie. Carlos said _you_ know what happened at the supply warehouse,” Tim tries, deciding to risk it. 

The door comes open a little more. Jenae glances down the hallway and then opens the door entirely, beckoning Tim inside. The boy tries not to breathe a sigh of relief. 

“Carlos Garcia?” Jenae asks, hesitant. There’s only one right answer here and Tim nods. 

“He said that?” Jenae asks again and Tim wonders if he made a mistake, giving too much credence to her story by pretending Carlos believed her. Well, it was too late to turn back now. 

Tim nods again. Jenae snorts and pulls something from her pocket, fiddling with it in her hands. It’s a cigarette. 

“If Vinnie’s missin’ kid, he’s dead. Hate to tell ya,” she says, though she doesn’t seem all that disturbed by Vinnie’s fate. She puts the cigarette in between her teeth and flicks out a lighter, raising it to her lips and pausing. She grabs the cigarette from her mouth and returns both to her pocket, unlit. Tim tries not to shift impatiently. 

“What happened?” Tim asks. He can recognize the look in Jenae’s eyes. It isn’t one interested in sparing a kid gruesome details about the fate of his uncle. It isn’t even one anymore that’s interesting in helping a fellow single mother keep a roof over her head. It’s one desperate to be listened to. To have her story validated, to have someone say ‘yeah, I believe you, that’s what happened.’ 

“Listen, Jimmy’s crazy if he thinks Vinnie and I were a thing,” Jenae starts, seeming to forget for a moment she was talking to a thirteen-year-old. “We _weren’t._ He just came in sometimes and flirted with the girls, and what it’s a crime to flirt back?” 

Tim bites his lip waiting for the story to continue. 

“Vinnie’d been hanging around Montoya’s the whole week too, actin’ fishy. Ask Rodney, even he thought it was weird. And he’d come to the supply house after and he kept askin’ about the shipments and when the next one was in. Like, how the hell should I know? Then, last Friday, when the shipment _does_ come in, bam,” Jenae claps her hands together. “No more Vinnie.” 

Tim tries to think back. That was just a few days before the mystery meeting Vinnie never came back from. Jenae digs the cigarette out of her pocket again and lights it this time, looking at Tim like she just solved the whole case for him. 

“So,” Tim furrows his eyebrow, trying to remember what he is supposed to know. “That was the last time you saw Vinnie?” he asks. 

Jenae snorts before continuing, like she only paused in her story for dramatic effect, and Tim tries not to get annoyed. “Hell no. Bastard came _back._ ” She says like this is a plot twist. “Sunday, he’s there all ‘did everything go okay,’ ‘where’s the product,’” Jenae mocks a pretty good imitation of Vinnie deep voice. “As if there was some problem with the shipment.” 

There’s a gleam in Jenae’s eyes and Tim realizes for the first time that the woman is actually really smart. 

“I tell him there was no issue, and start teasin’ him about being paranoid, ‘cause you know how Vinnie was. Then Bash walks over.” Tim tries to remember where he’s heard that name before, a memory pulling at him. “He gotta pick up early, Jimmy had us workin’ over time – same rate though – for his stuff and he wants to share a line. I say sure, and Vinnie freaks. Out.” 

Tim is really paying attention now. He remembers where he heard Bash’s name, Rodney had also said that Bash picked up his product early when he was talking to Carlos and Eddie two nights ago. Vinnie had been interested in the shipment of Maroni’s drugs into Gotham through the harbor. Not usually something a street dealer who already has a steady supplier would concern himself with. 

“Says I can’t do a line and Bash can’t do a line, works himself up a whole storm. I tell ‘im he can’t tell me what to do, bastard. So, Bash and I take one each, and Vinnie just stands there starin’ at us, asking if we feel alright and that’s when I knew.” 

“He cut it with something,” Tim finishes, horror growing. But Jenae is shaking her head. 

“I freaked out and accused him of that, but dumb bastard only _thought_ he did. I’ve had shit that’s been cut before and this wasn’t.” Jenae shrugs suddenly and the excitement from telling her story leaves her body. “Should’ve realized that before I accused him. Dumb bitch,” she mutters the last part to herself as she touches the bruise on her eye and Tim tries not to wince. 

“Umberto probably knew what Vinnie was doing, actin’ shady and all, and put a stop to whatever he was up to ‘fore he got up to it,” Jenae tells Tim. Her eyes get a little softer for moment. “Your uncle’s probably dead kid. Sorry, but no one messes with the Maroni’s and lives.” 

Tim nods but in the back of his mind he knows this doesn’t make sense. If the Maroni’s had stopped whatever Vinnie was doing to when the shipments had come, he wouldn’t have come back around to the supply warehouse later. Tim is also privy to knowledge Jenae doesn’t have. The Maroni brothers _didn’t_ kill Vinnie. Robin did. Tim’s mind puts the breaks on that line of thought fast. No. That’s only what the officer’s notes _said._ And from the sound of them, Officer Jacobson wasn’t even there when it happened. So, no. Just no. Not Robin. There’s no way. Right? 

“Thank you,” Tim says, knowing his voice sounds distant but hoping Jenae attributes it to shock. “For letting me know.” 

Jenae nods and she looks . . . pleased, thankful Tim accepts her story. Tim lets Jenae lead him to the door and close it behind him. He’s alone in an empty hallway. 

Tim’s phone buzzes and _Beth_ flashes on the screen. 

_Crap._ Beth had asked Tim yesterday if he’d wanted to go out to dinner, just the three of them. His stupid guilt-ridden brain had said yes of all things. 

Tim answers. “Uh, hey Beth. Sorry, I was just looking at the time, I got caught up in the library.” 

“No, no, I still wanna go. I can be back in fifteen minutes. I’m _really_ sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So _that's_ what Tim was forgetting. Will Tim ever get used to the idea of parental figures wanting to spend time with him?


	24. Officer, I Did It For the Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: References to past drug use
> 
> So, as I said, unfamiliar with Roy's backstory. I think in the pre-n52 canon, he was kind of kicked out by Oliver for partying too much and then turned to heroin while on the streets? I was going to tie Roy's drug use a little more closely to our current opium crisis because it floors me with all the pain meds that the heroes use, there isn't more of a problem regarding this in the community. Also, apologies again if Roy seems OOC to you . . .

#### November 2nd, 2018  
23:07  
Trouble, Bludhaven

Jason is pissed. He’s pissed at himself, he’s pissed at Roy Harper, and he’s pissed at the nine-year-old standing in front of him, tapping his foot and holding out his hand like the kid’s a teacher about to confiscate Jason’s cellphone. 

Only the kid is asking for his gun back. 

Maybe Jason should back up. Because all of this really starts with Roy. Because _of course_ it does. 

He’d been angrily eating frosted flakes with the guy three days ago when Roy had announced, out of nowhere, that had somewhere to be. At eleven in the morning. In Bludhaven. 

Of course, he hadn’t just _told_ Jason what he was doing. That would have been too easy. Instead, when Jason asked, Roy muttered “none of your goddamn business,” and slammed the door to Dick’s apartment on his way out. 

It’s like Roy was _asking_ Jason to follow him, really. 

Jason threw on an old sweatshirt of Dick’s, grabbed his shoes, and followed Roy three blocks to a seedy back alley where he watched the kid buy a ball of heroin from a child no more than thirteen. 

And Jason was _pissed._

He didn’t even wait for Roy to get back to Dick’s apartment. Jason grabbed him and pulled him into the next alley over and lit into him. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He’d asked, not giving the older boy a second to respond. Jason grabbed the heroin from Roy, who didn’t even put up a fight, and shoved it in his face. “Not only are you using, but you’re buying from a goddamn kid? A kid?” Jason pushed Roy, hard. And the older boy let him. “I mean I knew Arrows were stupid, but this is a whole new low.” 

Roy wouldn’t meet Jason’s eyes, but he mumbled, “I’m not using.” 

“What?” Jason all but snarled. 

Roy looked up at met Jason’s eyes and there was anger there, defiance. “I’m not using,” he repeated, annunciating each word. 

Jason grabbed Roy’s arm and pulled back the sleeve, remembering all those times he’d look over at Catherine’s arm. The dark spots always there, when she set waffles arranged in a funny face out for him for breakfast, when she held his hand crossing the street everyday walking to kindergarten, when she tucked him in at night, every night, and kissed his head and called him _mijo._

Roy ripped his arm away but not before Jason saw the track marks on his inner elbow. 

“I’m not using, anymore,” Roy spoke calmly. Jason looked at the guy, _really_ looked at him. His eyes were clear. There weren’t any bags under them. He hadn’t noticed Roy moving slowly or having slurred speech. No nervous ticks or excess energy. He wasn’t on drugs. At least, he wasn’t _at the moment._

“When was your last fix,” Jason asked, because he had to. 

Roy glanced away. “Two weeks ago.” He met Jason’s eyes. “It was a mistake. I got hurt and thought I could handle it. I couldn’t. I’d been clean for a year before that.” 

Jason’s anger had vanished, and he let go of Roy’s collar, which he hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding. 

Jason looked down at his other hand, the bag of heroin now had a hole in it and the brown powder was leaking out one side. 

“Okay, then explain this.” 

* * *

And that’s how he found himself with an impatient kid honestly expecting Jason to simply hand back the Glock he’d scooped off the ground because the kid had insisted, 

“It’s mine.” 

Jason glances at the gun. It’s an older, outdated model used by the police before they updated to a less bulky cousin of the gun with smaller grips. Jason wonders if the kid could even _hold_ the gun properly. 

“You got a license to carry?” Jason asks casually. 

The kid narrows his eyes. “You a cop?” 

Jason now towers over the boy. “Do I look like a cop?” 

The kid shrugs. “That’s what a cop would say.” 

Jason bites his tongue to stop from arguing with a literal nine-year-old because the kid should _know_ he’s not a cop. When Roy had explained to Jason what was happening, that some gang had been using kids to not only run the drugs and cash, but to actually _sell_ it on the street, Jason had agreed to help. Apparently, Roy had not been spending his time in Bludhaven simply cleaning out Dick’s cereal cabinet. He’d heard the rumor, doing god knows what god knows where, at this point Jason doesn’t even _want_ to ask, and the older vigilante figured he would check it out. 

So, Roy had started buying from the kids, hoping to use Dick’s portable lab back at the apartment to be able to trace the heroin to a known supplier. Problem was, three different heroin buys, three different kids, three different suppliers. Something else was going on. So, Jason agreed to help. On two conditions. 

“You sit this out,” Jason was not in the mood for arguing. Roy argued anyway. 

“But I’m the one – “ 

“No.” 

“Listen, I already know – “ 

“Then you can tell me.” 

“But what if – “ 

“You can be back-up, but only if I call.” 

There was a lot of grumbling, but Roy had agreed to stay at Dick’s apartment and provide – the older boy had scoffed – ‘technical support.’ 

“What’s the second condition?” Roy had asked, grinding his teeth. 

“If dickhead comes home while I’m out working this stupid case for you, you tell me, and you don’t tell him I was here.” 

Roy blinked in surprise. “You don’t want Dick to know you’re here?” 

“Those are my terms.” 

“You know this is his house, right?” 

“Those. Are. My. Terms.” 

“I didn’t even ask for your help,” Roy had snarled. 

“Those are my terms.” 

Roy accepted the terms. 

Jason rejected Roy’s ‘get in with the dealers’ plan. Had there been one supplier, it would have been easy. But unless you were beating information out of them, dealers were only good for gossip on other dealers. Plus, these kids were like _ten._ Jason didn’t even know how to have a conversation with a ten-year-old, much less pump them for information. Jason needed to be subtle. 

So, he watched. He waited. He learned. 

Last night, the kids all left their corners around the same time: 11 PM. Not exactly the best business model for a drug empire, but Jason supposes kids out alone any later actually _would_ attract attention, which obviously whoever is running this show doesn’t need. Jason followed them earlier in the night, and sure enough, at eleven, the kid Jason was watching left his post and started climbing back to the same foreclosed apartment complex set for demolition the kids had met up in the night before. 

But tonight, someone else was also following the boy. 

Jason almost missed him. The guy was good. Well, he was decent enough to fool Jason for two blocks. Which was good. But when Jason had seen the man drop down one street ahead of the kid, in the alley the child was about to turn down, Jason realized this was more than just a stalker. 

This was an ambush. 

Jason jumped off the roof he was on, ignoring the springs of pain that reverberated up his legs and ran into the alley just as the guy punched the kid across the face. 

Rage pounded in Jason’s ears and he was on the man in a second, ripping him away from the kid and throwing him on the ground. There was a _snap_ as the man tried to catch himself and a gasp of pain and Jason pushed him back down, broken arm caught under him. Jason hit him once, and then again, but it was clear the guy wasn’t expecting a fight. He went down with the second hit. 

The least the kid could say was _thank you._

Instead, he looks at Jason like Jason had been the one who hit him so hard the gun the kid had barely began pulling from his waist band went flying across the alley. 

A gun Jason now holds. The kid is still tapping his foot. 

The younger boy scrunches his face. “Alright,” he concedes after a beat of silence. “So, you’re not a cop. Who the hell are you?” 

Do nine-year-olds say hell? “I’m no one,” Jason growls instinctually. Well, there goes his stealth plan. Jason looks at the boy’s outstretched hand and looks back at his face. Yeah, there is no way he’s giving this kid a Glock. 

“Hey, that’s mine,” the kid yelps as Jason makes sure the safety is on and tucks the gun into his own waist band, the metal feeling surprisingly warm to the touch. 

“Yours? I found it on the ground,” Jason shrugs. The kid glares at him. Or tries to. Jason can’t take his tiny pinched face seriously. 

“Alright,” Jason concedes after a minute, thinking quickly. “ _Maybe_ I saw the person who dropped it. I can’t remember. If I knew where this person was going and what they were doing, it might help jog my memory.” 

The boy’s eyes widen comically and then narrow. Jason has to remind himself this is a _kid._

“Who _are_ you?” The boy asks again, fear creeping into his voice. Jason opens his mouth, unsure of what to say when a noise at the mouth of the alley makes him whip around. 

“Pete?” A voice calls and three men round the mouth of the alley. “Didya find the fu – “ the speaker cuts himself short, eyes locking with the unconscious figure behind Jason. The men pull up and Jason steps forward. The first man’s eyes fly to Jason’s face and he watches comprehension and then fury flicker across the man’s expression. 

“Kid, run,” Jason says. He can hear a scuffle behind him, but no retreating footsteps. 

Four more men join the three at the mouth of the alley. _Great,_ Jason thinks. The scuffling behind him stops and Jason risks a glance back. The kid hasn’t moved. 

“Kid, get out of here,” Jason growls, taking a step forward. The men start advancing on them. The kid catches Jason’s arm and tugs back. 

“No way, man, we gotta run,” he says, fear evident in his voice. 

Jason yanks his arm back. “ _You_ gotta run, I got this,” he growls. Why won’t the kid just go? 

The kid digs his heels in. “I’m not leaving my gun behind,” he argues. Jason can see the men getting closer now, hear them shouting. “You stay, I stay, but I’ll tell you I’m lousy in a fight. You run, I run, and I know a way out. So, what’s it gonna be, red hoodie?” 

Jason growls and looks at the seven men approaching. Alone, he could take them. Probably. But protecting a dumb kid? And without gear? “Fine,” Jason growls and when the kid turns and takes off, he holds on to Jason’s sleeve, like he’s worried Jason will only pretend to follow. 

The kid’s fast. They peel out the back of the alley and the kid pushes him down an empty one-way street. 

“This way,” the kid says, yanking Jason by the arm again so they are now running down a parallel alleyway. 

“Red hoodie?” Jason asks as the boy climbs a dumpster and reaches back as if Jason would need his help up. Jason pulls himself onto the dumpster and watches the boy scale the fence like he does it every day and lower himself down the other side. Jason follows. 

“You wouldn’t tell me your name,” the kid says with a shrug, nodding to the red sweatshirt Jason has been wearing, pulled from the back of Dick’s closet. The kid seems a lot calmer now that the two have a fence between them and their attackers. Jason can hear the men shouting still, not far behind them. The boy strides forward, and Jason catches him by the arm. 

“Wait, let me see if they left anyone behind to watch the street,” Jason says. 

The kid snorts. “We aren’t going to the street,” he says, pulling away from Jason and walking toward a chipped green door in the side of the building. The kid pulls a key from his pocket. 

“This where you live?” Jason asks, trying to figure out if the building is residential. The kid looks at him like he’s an idiot and pulls the door open. 

“This is where _we_ live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason side-quest? Jason side-quest.
> 
> I decided to play around with chronology in this chapter . . . so hopefully it makes sense. It was fun, actually.


	25. The Boy Who Cried Murder

#### November 3nd, 2018  
00:18  
Rittenhouse, Gotham

Tim watches the small window on the sixth floor of the Rittenhouse Projects, checking, and double checking, that there is still no movement inside. There hasn’t been for the last three hours and it is late enough now that Tim decides, in all likelihood, Terrence Basher really isn’t home. 

He slips from the roof of the building across the street and nimbly climbs down the side fire escape. 

Terrence Basher doesn’t answer the buzzer and Tim resorts to pressing them at random until he hears the faint click of the mechanical lock on the front entrance slink open. 

He makes his way up six flights of stairs after spotting an ‘out of order’ sign on the elevator he suspects has been there at least his entire life. It hadn’t taken much for Tim to figure out who “Bash” was. Police records outlined his affiliation with the Maroni gang in a long string of petty crimes and gave his last known address here, the Rittenhouse Projects, where he’s lived for the last fifteen years. 

And now? Now Tim is squatting in front of the door of a known drug dealer, emboldened by the day-old newspaper still lying, untouched, on a surprisingly bright ‘Welcome’ mat, and trying very hard not think about the fourteen overdoses reported in this area in the last four days. 

Fourteen. 

Tim’s done some things he isn’t proud of. For example, he told the old lady who buzzed him into this building that he was selling cookies, and why yes of course he would stop by her apartment on his way out. He’d used the dinner with Beth and Peter earlier that night to guilt trip them into letting him spend the night at a friend’s house, in case things went sour, never mind the fact that he has never mentioned any friends to them before, didn’t they trust him? 

But this? _Fourteen._

Fourteen used to be a small number to Tim. The number of pews at the small church one of his old foster parents used to drag him to. The height of the ceiling in feet of the lobby of the apartment complex he lived in for three months last year. 

It was also the number of deaths Tim’s stupidity had caused in the last four days. 

With that in mind, fourteen seems like an exceedingly large number. 

Tim knows far more than fourteen people. He had once heard that for every person alive today there were fourteen dead in human history. 

Fourteen. 

The lock finally gives way and Tim pushes into the apartment. He should have known. Should have realized what was happening immediately. It should have been obvious two days ago when Tim heard Rodney, Eddie, and Carlos talking at the dealership. It should have clicked yesterday when he listened to radio report the _ninth_ overdose in only three days in one small three block area of town half a mile from the harbor. Not that overdoses were particularly uncommon here. That’s probably why when Tim hacked into the coroner’s office, he saw only the most cursory of autopsies were done on each of the bodies. Nothing mysterious about a drug addict dying with a needle in his arm, right? 

And then, talking to the bag girl, everything fell into place. Not right away. It had taken most of the dinner, nodding absently to Beth and Peter, mind spinning, for everything to finally make sense. 

Well, almost everything. That’s why Tim is here. He has to know. 

The smell of vomit hits Tim as soon as he throws the door to the apartment open and Tim pauses. The putrid smell lingers and mixes with something else, urine? 

Tim puts a sleeve over his nose and slips inside, closing the door softly behind him and flicking the lights on. 

It smells _terrible._ Worse than anything Tim’s ever smelled before. Maybe he should realize what the stench is, but his brain is working slowly, glancing around the apartment, making sure, checking and double checking, that no one is home. Everything in the apartment is still, like all life has been leached out of it. 

It’s a sad shamble of a place to live. Rittenhouse is no five-star hotel, but Bash has a single couch, cotton peeking through several holes, an empty table where it looks like a TV used to be, and dishes piled high on every horizontal surface in the kitchen. Even the floor. 

The kitchen. That’s when Tim sees it. _Well, that was a lot easier than he thought it would be._ There is a black backpack slung over the side of the one chair at Bash’s meager excuse for a kitchen table. Tim has seen the pack before, when he caught pictures of some of the Maroni dealers returning from picking up their product a few months ago. He’d spent days trying to find where the supply house was located or how and when the drugs got from Montoya’s to the warehouse, where they are unpacked and bagged, ready for distribution to the dealers on the street. Tim supposes there's a reason Rodney’s not yet in jail. It can't be that easy. The GCPD already know about Montoya’s, of course, they simply never have enough to do anything about it. So, they watch it, like Tim does and use it to learn who is working with the Maroni’s and what any gossip on the street says. 

Tomorrow night, twenty more dealers will come for backpacks identical to the one Bash threw on the back of this chair, Rodney had told him that. 

Now, it was a question of what exactly they will be picking up. 

Tim slides a small mechanical tester out of his pocket. He didn’t steal it exactly. The GCPD crime lab updated their portable testers six months ago and if one happened to accidentally fall into Tim’s hands, well they were getting rid of the older model anyway. 

Tim pulls out an empty film cannister from his pocket and goes over to the sink to fill it with water and that’s when he sees him. 

Fifteen. 

The smell. Tim should have known. There is a pile of vomit next to Terrence Basher’s body and dried vomit on his face, like in his final moments he didn’t have the strength the roll over, so he wouldn't choke to death. His eyes are closed and if it wasn’t for the unnatural pallor of his body and the putrid smell, Tim could almost convince himself Bash was just sleeping. Prone, body stiff on the tile floor, but sleeping. 

Tim can tell from here checking for a pulse would be pointless. 

He has to look away. _Fill the goddamn canister, Tim, check the bag and get the fuck out of here._ His hands are shaking but he manages to get water in the canister and walk over to the backpack. The putrid smell has filled his nostrils and started to rot his insides. There is an emptied plastic bag on the kitchen table, a small place cleared and tiny white particles dusting the surface. 

Tim rips open the backpack, grabbing a small bag of cocaine - _god there are so many in there_ \- and dumps it unceremoniously into the film canister, capping the can and shaking it. 

The shaking isn’t hard. Tim can barely think. The body of Terrence Basher is ten feet away from him and Tim is trying very hard not to think about that. 

He pops the top off, setting it on the table and places the prong of the mechanical tester inside, holding his breath. A minute passes. 

Nothing. 

The device flashes a bright shade of pink on the small screen, but that only means the substance is cocaine. Tim stares at the tester, trying to make sense of it. 

He was wrong. Vinnie hadn’t cut the cocaine with anything. The bag girl was wrong or was right about being wrong. Maybe she’d been lying, and Tim simply hadn’t been good enough to tell. Tim glances over at the prone figure of Bash again. He suddenly feels a wave of calm. 

Tim throws the contents of the cannister in the sink and fills it once again with water. Almost mechanically, Tim pulls out another small bag and dumps it into the cannister again, capping and shaking it once more. He pops the top, sets it on the table, and sticks the device in the cloudy liquid. 

A minute passes. 

The screen flashes a sickly green. 

Aconite. 

* * *

Tim spends the rest of the night waiting. waiting at Rittenhouse for the police to come get Bash’s body. He joins the crowd that gathers at entrance to the apartments, as early morning sun finally leeches through the gray cloudy skies, and he can hear one cop tell a woman ‘heart attack’ and another tell a man ‘overdose.’ Tim watches as they put the backpack in an evidence bag, but he can tell the way the men handle it, it hasn’t been marked priority. 

Tim spends the rest of the morning finding his way back to the top of the building across the street from Montoya’s Dealership, with each minute passing, the dread in his stomach only grows. 

Tim places a call to GCPD’s tip line, like he has done so often before and he waits more. An hour. Two hours. Four. Maybe he was too calm when he told them that the dealership was about to release cocaine cut with aconite onto the streets. Should he have panicked more when he told them? Cried? 

Tim calls the police operators and reports a body in the back of the shop. No one comes. Are his calls being redirected, or do they simply not believe him? 

As the sun settles into position directly overhead, and begins falling down the other way, Tim knows the GCPD don’t believe him. 

If Tim had one more night, he could try to figure out where the supply house is and steal the bags - _no_. That would start a gang war. The Maroni brothers would no doubt blame the Bertinelli crime family, who have been rivals of the Maroni family for decades. The Maroni’s would assume they had finally made a move. Chaos. 

And Tim doesn’t have one more night. The dealers are coming for backpacks Sunday morning to a supply warehouse Tim doesn’t know the location of. He’d need another day to hack into bank records and business ownings at the least, and that was only to have a shot at finding it. And the police don’t even believe him anymore. And tomorrow those drugs will be on the street. 

Tim had done the right thing. He’d called the police. That’s what he had always done, for eighteen months. And for the most part, the police had believed him. 

But now? Everything has changed. 

Twenty backpacks. Filled with cocaine and cocaine laced with aconite. Killing indiscriminately on the streets of Gotham in the perfect 50/50 ratio. Tim has no doubt now who has been blackmailing Vinnie. 

So, this is how Two-Face will get his revenge. Shooting the man who led him into Joker’s trap hadn’t been enough. He has to destroy Sal Maroni’s legacy. Ruin the Maroni name on the streets by killing half the customers. No one will ever buy drugs from the Maroni’s again. 

Tim clenches his fist. His mind starts to compute how many people that would be. The backpacks are filled with a hundred individually packaged bags. There are 20 backpacks. Tim stops himself. 

That wouldn’t happen. 

The case had, once again, become too big for Tim. The boy bites his lip. He doesn’t have time to leave Oracle an encrypted note. How often does she check GCPD’s database, anyways? And Batman hasn’t been seen for three days. Not since Robin . . . 

It doesn’t matter. Tim needs Batman. 

And unfortunately, that means Tim needs to speak with Bruce Wayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY!
> 
> Also, worth noting. I am no expert in poisons. This chapter took some research that will definitely result in my name popping up on some list somewhere.


	26. Condemned

#### November 3rd, 2018  
00:30  
Westbrook Building, Bludhaven

“Are you here to rob us?” The boy asks, brown eyes blinking up at Jason in the dimly lit hallway the kid led him into. The boy doesn’t wait for Jason’s answer, turning and running up the stairway at the end of the hall, taking the steps by two. 

When Jason doesn’t respond the boy stops, halfway up, and glances back. Jason can see now the kid has a split lip, still gushing blood from where the man hit him in the alley, and bruise forming on his cheek. 

“Shit,” Jason says. “Come here,” he calls the boy closer. “Let me take a look at your lip.” 

The boy looks at him quizzically, like he doesn’t understand what Jason is asking and Jason briefly wonders if the kid has ever been to a doctor before. He pauses and just when he is about to say ‘never mind,’ the kid nods and hops comically back down the steps. 

Jason pulls out a few tissues he has in his pocket and wipes the blood away. There isn’t much more he can do. The cut doesn’t need stitches and tape wouldn’t hold. He carefully looks over the bruise forming on the boy’s cheek but there isn’t much he can do there either. Jason checks the kid’s vision, and even as the kid rolls his eyes, he indulges the older boy. Jason just tells the kid it will hurt tomorrow and if he has any issues with his vision he should go to a clinic. The kid nods but Jason suspects he could go blind tomorrow, and still nothing would drag him into a doctor’s office. 

He stands feeling like he didn’t help much and now he’s made the kid feel weird. But the boy just scrutinizes Jason for a long moment and then nods and bounds back up the stairs. 

Jason isn’t sure if he passed or failed until he hears, 

“I’m Luis, by the way. We’re up here,” and the kid is already scrambling up another flight of stairs. Jason runs to keep up with him. 

Luis opens the door on the fourth floor to a wide-open area that looks like an emptied loft. The exposed brick on the walls may have pretty at some point, but they it’s rotten and black now, falling apart without care. 

And there are seven kids in the room, lounging around on the disease-ridden floor like they own place. 

They all freeze as Jason steps in the room. 

“Lu,” one of the boy’s says, his voice harsh. He can’t be more than – Jesus ten? Eleven maybe? “Who the hell is this?” 

Luis looks back at Jason like he forgot Jason was follow him. “Oh, he’s a doctor. I’m calling him red hoodie.” 

Another boy flicks his eyes down to Jason’s shirt at then back up to Jason. “Original Lu.” 

The nine-year-old shrugs and beckons his friends closer. “He’s a friend.” The boy pauses. “Well, actually, he’s not. But he beat up a guy who tried to beat up me, so I like him.” 

Three boys and a girl came to join Luis, as Jason ventures farther into the room, hesitant and a little unsure of his place. It’s not a bad set-up. All the windows were still intact, so the room was relatively warm. It wasn’t freezing at least, which was more than he could say for a lot of other places these kids could be. Only one of the kids, a small girl looking no more than seven doesn’t approach Jason. She appears to be asleep from what Jason can tell and he would be worried about how pale she looks except he can see the steady rise and fall of her chest. 

“Kinda young to be a doctor?” a boy with sandy blond hair asks. 

“I’m not a doctor,” Jason growls at him. He doesn’t know what exactly made him growl at the kid, but the situation is already so weird Jason can’t think of anything else to do. 

Luis glances at him with renewed apprehension. 

“Alright, red hoodie,” the nine-year-old says with the authority half the VPs at Wayne Enterprise could only hope to muster. “What are you doing here? You were following me.” 

Jason looks at the kids in front of him. The tallest has dark eyes and naturally browned skin, tinged with even more dirt from too many nights without a shower. The girl has her dark curly hair tied back in a ratty ponytail, and the boy next to her has a long scar on his cheek and dark blue eyes. They are a scrawny, underfed, wild looking bunch all folding their arms and doing their best to look intimidating. 

Well? What’s the worst that can happen? 

“I’m looking for whoever is running the gang of kids selling heroin on the streets,” Jason replies flatly. 

The boy with dark eyes steps forward, he can’t be older than thirteen. 

“Well, you found him. What of it?” 

This. This is the worst that could happen. 

Jason presses his lips together. “Where do you get the heroin?” he asks. 

“Found it,” the kid replies, almost proud. 

Jason snorts. “Yeah, fell off the back of a truck?” he asks. 

The kid gives Jason a creepy smile. “Something like that.” 

“You steal drugs from a gang, kid, they aren’t going to send you thank you note.” 

“It doesn’t matter how we got it, we got it, okay?” Luis turns a withering glare toward Jason. “You here to rob us?” the kid asks again. 

Jason sighs. Jesus. These were _kids._ “No, I’m not here to rob you, okay?” Something in his voice must convince them, their shoulders slump and little and they look a little more like children. 

“I was just trying to figure out why half the drug dealers in this area are like twelve.” 

“We aren’t _drug dealers_ ,” Luis snorts, putting a funny twist on the word. “We just need –“ a _thwack_ in the stomach from the girl next to him cuts Luis short. 

“Shit, Blue,” Luis rubs his stomach but keeps his eyes downcast, blood rushing to his cheeks. 

“We _are_ drug dealers, dumdum,” the blond boy hisses at Luis. “We sell drugs for money, what do you call that where you’re from?” 

Luis considers this for a moment and then nods. “Yes, we _are_ drug dealers.” 

Jason’s heard enough and he narrows his eyes. “Need what?” he asks. 

“Luis, Shawn, why don’t you guys check on Ellie.” 

“Osam,” the blond boy wines, but after a glance back from the other boy, they turn away. Osam scrutinizes Jason now and the older boy tries not to feel annoyed. 

After a moment, Osam nods in satisfaction and Jason can’t help but wonder what the younger boy was looking for. 

“We got the drugs from the police. _Not_ the gangs.” Osam says flatly. That explains why they tested from different suppliers. Doesn’t explain how they pulled _that_ off. Jason thinks he’s unlikely to get the story. “But we did steal them.” The boy shifts almost imperceptibly, like he is uncomfortable with the admission. _Huh._ “We need the money for our father.” Osam says this so quietly Jason almost misses it. 

“Your dad?” Jason asks. None of the kids look related. 

__The boy shakes his head. “At the church. We don’t . . . None of here have anywhere to go. Father Jose takes care of us. Gives us a place to sleep and food, makes us go to school and whatnot. At least, he did. Before he got hurt. He needs the money to get help.” Now the boy’s eyes flash with defiance as they meet Jason’s. “And once we sell these drugs, he’ll _have_ enough money.” _ _

_Shit._

Jason _hates_ Roy Harper. 

“So, what are you going to do?” 

The kid was tense, like he expected a fight. Like he thought . . . Jason was going to _hit_ him or something. Jason lets out a deep sigh and crouches down. 

“Nothing,” Jason says. “I just wanted to make sure the gangs weren’t exploiting kids. You have a limited supply. Sell this, get your money, and nothing more.” 

__Jason meets the kid’s eyes now to make sure Osam knows he is serious. “Nothing more.” He repeats. “Or I will be back here, and I will rob you next time.” Jason makes another promise to himself. These kids won’t have to sell the rest of these drugs in order to get the money. There is no way Jason is letting that happen. But he can’t say that now._ _

__A wide smile spreads across Osam’s face, revealing a toothy grin that reminds Jason how young the boy in front of him is. But it also reminds Jason how young he was, running around the streets of Crime Alley, alone most nights, stealing tires and wallets and worrying about where he was going to find his next meal._ _

__Osam grins at Jason, almost relieved by the threat. “I like you, red hood,” the boy muses._ _

__Jason tries for a glare, but ends up with more of an amused smile._ _

___Shit.__ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason, Jason, Jason. Who are you trying to fool with your gruff demeanor?


	27. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very aware that Alfred has several backstories that vary across cannon, but I've always liked any that include Alfred the Actor, however brief the time frame.

#### November 3rd, 2018  
19:25  
Wayne Manor, Outside Gotham

Alfred Pennyworth has seen his fair share of strange things. For one thing, he lives with a man who dresses as a bat and fights crime every night. For another, he was part of a travelling troupe of actors through his late teens and early twenties. These two experiences combined tend to cover most strange occurrences one might stumble across in life. 

But neither prepared him for the small boy who appears at his door early Saturday evening, covered in dirt and grime and looking like he hasn’t slept for days. 

At first, something is only vaguely familiar about the boy, but Alfred does not recognize him. It isn’t until Alfred takes a closer look at the camera, the file the boy is holding and the nervous attempt at a grin the boy shoots Alfred’s way that the old man is able to place the child. 

It is Timothy Drake. The tipster. 

Alfred had seen the boy’s picture in the cave less than a week ago, and while he had known that it was taken when the boy was eleven, whereas it is a thirteen-year-old child who stands in front of him today, Alfred still would have thought he’d be able to make the connection quicker. But the boy in that photo has little resemblance to the child on the doorstep in front of the butler. For one, the boy in the photo had been grinning, whereas the child in front of him wears the settled frown of a much older man. The boy in the photo also had a rounded, youthful face and while some of that must have fallen out with age, the child in front of him is rail thin, the ghost of hunger ever-present in the boy’s pale blue eyes. The older man has to fight an urge to invite the child in for a hot meal. 

“May I help you?” Alfred says instead, wary. The boy’s tries another hesitant smile, but after a moment, it fades. Alfred sees a conflict, a war going on behind the boy’s icy eyes, and it surprises the older man. But patience is a weapon Alfred has learned to wield and he waits. 

“I hope so,” the younger boy says. His knuckles go white as they grip the files in his hands even tighter. “I was hoping to speak with Bruce Wayne.” 

Alfred considers this request, taking in the boy in front of him. A ragged, half starved, desperate child knocking on the Manor door and asking for help. Alfred isn’t quite sure what to make of it, but he decides to play. 

“Do you have an appointment?” he asks politely. 

Annoyance flashes in Timothy’s eyes, but the boy does not allow the emotion to control him. Instead, he shakes his head. 

“No.” 

Alfred pauses to see if the boy will continue. He doesn’t. 

“Perhaps I can relay a message then?” Alfred prods again, as polite as ever. 

The boy shakes his head. “I think he’ll want to hear it from me,” he responds dryly. “It’s about Two-Face and the Maroni Crime Family.” 

It’s only years of theater training that allow Alfred’s eyebrows to shoot up and genuine surprise to twist across his face. 

“A crime family? What interest do you think Master Wayne would have with a matter like this? Have you called the police?” 

Now genuine anger rages in the boy’s eyes and it takes him a second to get it under control. The boy is tiring of the game fast and Alfred wonders exactly how long he will play. 

“Well, I doubt _Bruce Wayne_ has any interest in Maroni Crime Family _or_ Two-Face.” When the boy replies his voice is surprisingly even. He meets Alfred’s eyes, asking him the same question the older man had been asking the boy. _How long are you willing to play this?_

But Alfred is too old to play games and he holds the boy’s gaze. It takes a minute. Two. The boy sighs and glances away. 

He hands the file he has been gripping to the butler. 

“Please,” he says as Alfred takes the papers. “This is really important.” 

The older man takes the files, a little surprised at how quickly Timothy handed them over. But, flipping through them, at even the most cursory glance, Alfred grasps the severity of the situation. He glances down at the child. 

“He will not appreciate this,” Alfred warns him. Timothy shakes his head. 

“I’m passed caring,” the boy replies, but the way he doesn’t fully meet Alfred’s eyes tells the older man that the child understands the gravity of what he has done. 

The butler pauses. “I need you to say it,” he says after a moment. The boy’s eyes shoot up to the old man’s and Alfred takes a moment to remind himself how young the boy is. How young Master Richard and Master Jason were. This boy was no younger, really. Perhaps Alfred is just reminding himself how young they all were. How young they all still are. 

The boy hesitates, like he is unwilling, even after coming here, to say the words out loud. It reassures Alfred again that the boy appreciates the situation. 

“Bruce Wayne is Batman,” the boy says. He pauses. “And I really need to talk to him, or a lot of people are going to die.” 

* * *

Tim has been waiting in the foyer for nearly an hour and he is starting to get impatient. A look at his watch tells him he has not only missed breakfast and lunch but also dinner at this point. All Tim can do is hope the flimsy excuse he gave Beth and Peter will hold up for a few more hours. If it doesn’t. . . Tim doesn’t know what will happen. Well, no, he _knows_ what will happen. He just doesn’t want to think about it. Consequences lurk in the back of Tim's mind, silently judging his every action. 

And Beth and Peter will be so mad. 

No, that isn’t quite right. Tim can’t imagine them getting mad. They’ll be worried about him. Scared. And disappointed. The last one hurts the most. The more they try the worse and worse Tim feels for lying and sneaking and pushing them away. 

But this is too important. He can’t leave now, he’s committed. He told Batman he knows his secret. Or has he told Bruce Wayne he knows his secret? 

Well, technically, the only person Tim has told is the butler, Alfred. The older man had been testing him when Tim knocked on the door and considering how long he has been gone, Tim is starting to think he failed. 

The longer Alfred is away, the more Tim begins to think this was a terrible idea. What will Batman do to Tim now that he knows Tim knows who he is? The thought had never really occurred to him. He’s known who Batman is since he was 9, when he saw Robin pull off a trick he had only ever seen once before. Then, Tim had spent years of his life proving it to himself. But when Tim’s parents died, it became less important who Batman and Robin were and more important who they weren’t. They weren’t gods. They weren’t heroes. They weren’t infallible. They were men. Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson. And then Jason Todd. They would make mistakes. They would fail to save people, like his parents. They might even kill people, like Jason Todd had done (or hadn't done). But they were trying. And now, so is Tim. 

Or at least, Tim _thinks_ they’re trying. Another glance at his watch tells him it is well passed 7 by now. Beth and Peter will have surely thought it was strange all they received was a text, and his phone has long since died, and a lame excuse about a group project and still no Bruce Wayne. Dammit, doesn’t he understand this is time sensitive? 

Tim is debating venturing further into the house, following the hallway he saw Alfred disappear down when movement behind him makes him freeze. 

A faint _click_ as a lock slides free. 

* * *

The front door to the house creaks open and Dick Grayson slips into the manner, wincing at the groans of the door’s tired hinges. A small figure in the foyer jumps and spins around, the sudden movement causing Dick to freeze. His gaze shooting over, the older boy realizes it’s the figure of a child, hidden in the shadows. When the kid takes a shaky step forward, Dick Grayson places him immediately. He’d seen the kid’s photo just a few days earlier. 

“Um, hello,” Dick says, trying to make sense of the younger boy gaping in front of him, pale blue eyes like saucers at the sight of the older boy. Dick’s used to the staring, he’s Bruce Wayne’s ward, but something about the way the boy looks at him, with wonder only a child can muster, makes Dick shift uncomfortably. 

Dick Grayson studies the kid, trying to decide if he broke into the manor somehow. The boy was dirty with grease stains across his forehead and clothes that looked a day old. His messy, unkempt hair and a thinning, tired face certainly didn’t look intimidating and after a minute of Dick’s staring the boy finally pulls himself upright, shaking off any lingering awe, and takes a step forward, a wary smile now on his face. 

“Uh, hi,” the boy says. “I’m Tim.” The boy looks like he wants to extend a hand to shake but then decides against it. Dick furrows his brow. 

“Alfred let me in,” Tim reassures the older boy, seeming to know what was going through his mind. Dick’s eyes dart around the room, as if looking for Alfred, or maybe an explanation. Finding neither, Dick smiles. 

“Dick,” he decides to introduce himself, forgoing a handshake as well. The younger boy lets a genuine grin escape his lips. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. 

Dick isn’t quite sure what to make of that but lets his smile fade. “So – “ he begins. 

“Oh, Master Richard, I wasn’t expecting you back in Gotham,” Alfred says, coming slowly around the banister. His eyes are tired eyes and he moves warily, as if he is worried about the situation that’s about to unfold. 

Dick hesitates, and then decides to come clean. “I never left actually.” He says. “I was just staying . . .” Dick begins to notice Tim watching the conversation with sharp eyes and suspicion grows in his stomach. “In the city,” Dick finishes. Alfred nods, understanding. 

The older man turns to the kid – Tim, Dick reminds himself. He looks nervously at Alfred, chewing his lip and twisting his nimble fingers around the hem of his shirt. Alfred lets out a regretful sigh. “I’m afraid Master Bruce will not see you,” the older man replies. “But I can give you a ride back into town.” 

The young boy’s jaw locks and his eyes blaze now with an anger Dick hadn’t expected from the kid. It’s Dick’s turn to watch the scene before him unfold with rapt attention. 

“I don’t think he understands—” Tim starts, choosing his words carefully and cutting them off quickly with anger. 

Alfred steps forward and rests his hand on Tim’s shoulder, and he tenses beneath the gesture. 

“He understands,” Alfred continues but Tim backs away from the man shaking his head. 

“No. He doesn’t. _Thousands_ of people will die, you know that, right? Fifteen are already dead. _Fifteen._ And that was in four days.” The boy’s eyes are wet but he isn’t allowing his voice to betray him, anger laces every word. 

Dick steps forward now, brows furrowing. “Hold on, what the hell is going on?” 

Tim spins on Dick and for a second the older boy thinks the kid is mad at him. But there is hope in his eyes. “You _have_ to help him, Dick. He _can’t_ take on Two-Face alone,” the boy pleads. 

Dick stumbles backward now, glancing at Alfred for some sort of explanation. The older man simply looks tired and he glances at Dick with apologetic eyes. 

“What—What are you talking about?” Dick stumbles over his words. 

Alfred answers, sighing. “He knows Master Richard.” 

Dick looks over at Alfred and then back at the boy in front of him. His brain trying to process everything but moving all too slowly. 

Tim doesn’t seem to notice the problem. He throws his hands up. “The dealers will pick up the bad product _in the morning._ And then there is _no_ stopping it.” Tim is almost shouting by the end of it, raised voice echoing through the halls. 

Dick holds up his hands. “Okay. Hold on. Back up. Tim,” the older boy pauses. Tim glances over at him and the two meet eyes. Maybe he simply needed a moment to calm down. Maybe he can finally see in Dick’s eyes that the older boy is taking this seriously. Either way, tension seems to ease from Tim’s bones. “Tell me what is going on.” 

The younger boy takes a deep and shaky breath. 

“Two-Face is planning on destroying the Maroni empire. Revenge for Maroni leading Dent into Joker’s trap years ago. Killing Maroni wasn’t enough. The brothers took over the empire after that and now that Two-Face is out again, he wants to destroy the Maroni name. He found out a Maroni dealer, Edwin Rowe, or Skinny Vinnie, killed Joseph Marino for raping his sister. Vinnie got away with the murder, GCPD couldn’t find enough for an ID. Except if you stitch a picture together from social media videos, you can get a full picture of Rowe walking away from the crime scene at the time of death. Two-Face found this, and used it to blackmail Vinnie into messing with the Maroni supply. He figured out when the Maroni were expecting more product to come in at the docks and cut half the supply with aconite so that when people buy, they have a 50/50 chance of dying, completely ruining the Maroni name.” 

Tim pauses for a second, watching Dick’s face and the older boy tries to keep a neutral look, but inside his heart races. Dick hadn’t thought much about the Two-Face case since that night, and he suspects Batman hadn’t either. After Jason . . . 

“One of the Maroni dealers by the harbor,” Tim continues, brow furrowing at the lack of reaction Dick is giving him. “Got an advance on his product. Four days ago. Since then, 15 people have died. Aconite doesn’t show up unless you have a really in-depth autopsy, and all of the deaths were just ruled overdoses. Luckily, the dealer also sampled his own product. He died of aconite poisoning yesterday.” Tim frowns. “Or unluckily I guess.” He pauses again and shakes his head. “No, luckily.” 

Tim glances up at Dick again. The older boy still hasn’t spoken but he meets Tim’s eyes. “There are twenty more backpacks being picked up by Maroni dealers _in the morning._ I tried calling in a tip to GCPD but they must not believe me.” Tim’s voice hitches up in desperation at the end and Dick steps forward now to put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. 

“We believe you,” he says automatically, and for some reason Dick does. The younger boy’s face relaxes ever so slightly at the reassurance. Dick keeps his voice strong, but soft. “And we will make sure the GCPD believes you. They’ll raid Montoya’s and the warehouse tonight before anyone picks up those backpacks.” And now, Tim slowly releases the tension held in his body, his face crumpling in sheer relief, looking even more tired now than before. Dick watches the kid and a thought occurs to him. He furrows his eyebrows and glances at Alfred. 

“GCPD will handle Montoya’s,” Dick began. “But that’s only half the problem.” The older boy is looking at Alfred but when he feels Tim shift his weight under his hand, Dick glances down at the kid. 

“I’m pretty sure Two-Face is operating out of Cowen’s Bar,” Tim says. He glances at Alfred. “That was in the file.” 

The older man’s eyes shoot to Dick’s and the two seem to have a silent conversation. 

“I mean it’s only a guess,” Tim’s words come out quickly but Dick is already pulling away. 

“Has he left?” Dick cuts Tim off, addressing Alfred. The older man nods, a look of worry blooming on his face. 

“He was just heading down to the cave – “ 

Dick sprints down the hall. “Bring the kid,” he yells back after a moment. 

As Dick approaches to the cave elevators, he can here an airy British voice saying, “You best follow me. And while I have you here, you are going to allow me to fix you a sandwich.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, Tim reveals what he knows! And maybe the kid is still a little star struck by Dick Grayson, but honestly, who among us can blame him?
> 
> Typical Bruce, always trying to do things alone.


	28. Missing

#### November 3rd, 2018  
17:04  
Kane Public Library, Gotham

Steph’s phone buzzes in her back pocket at she taps her pencil incessantly on the book in front her, ignoring the not-so-obvious glare from the boy on the other side of the table. She’s been fidgeting for the last hour, trying to finish the homework she had been putting off for a week, and this kid was judging her for making a _little_ bit of noise in the library. Okay, to be fair, the bag of chips she was munching on was kind of loud, and she really didn’t have to bring carrots as her one vegetable of the day. And she _really_ didn’t have to eat those carrots while looking directly at him without breaking eye contact. 

Her phone buzzes again and she realizes it’s a phone call and - oh my god, she can just imagine the look on the kid's face if she answers. Steph pulls out her phone and glances down in case it’s her mom. 

The number is one she doesn’t recognize. Normally, Steph would let it ring to voicemail, but for some reason, despite the comically loud sigh, almost growl, from the boy across from her and the slamming of his book, in case she missed the sigh, Steph hits the green ‘accept’ button and pulls the phone to her ear. 

“Hello?” she answers. 

The woman’s voice on the other end is hesitant, like she’s not certain she should be making this call. “Um, yes. Hi. This is Beth Monroe. Are Mr. or Mrs. Draper there?” she asks. 

“Excuse me?” Steph says before she can think. 

“Alvin Draper’s parents?” the woman tries, her voice even more hesitant now. “Our . . .” the woman flounders for a moment and Steph’s brain is starting to catch onto the situation. “Um, Tim Drake was supposed to be spending the night last night at Alvin’s and he hasn’t come home yet. Tim hasn’t. Um, well he gave us this number to contact you? We were just calling to make sure he was alright.” 

Shit. Alvin Draper. Tim. 

“Oh yes,” Steph laughs and forces her voice to sound relaxed. She sounds relaxed. She’s relaxed, right? “Sorry, just Mrs. Draper, no Mr. and she’s out right now. I’m Alvin’s older sister, Jess. Tim and Alvin are at the library actually, working on a project for school.” Steph’s brain is whirling now. “Actually,” she decides in an instant. “My mom invited Tim to stay for dinner, I hope that’s alright. The kids have just been working all day and well, you know mom, she always overcooks and Tim’s a sweetheart, we love having him,” Steph rambles for a moment before cutting herself short, heart pounding. 

“Oh, uh, sure,” the woman replies and then pauses as if she’s just realizing what she agreed to. Steph wonders if the woman can hear her heart thumping on the other end of the line. 

“Yes, well okay. If you see Tim . . .” 

“I’ll let him know you called,” Steph says. “He probably just forgot to give you a call or left his phone somewhere, you know how he is, that kid is so forgetful. Oh dear,” Steph feigns surprise. “I have to run! Well, I’ll let Tim know you called!” Steph slams the phone shut. The boy across the table will no longer make eye contact with her. 

Steph tries to control her breathing, but it hitches when she checks the time. It’s 5 PM. Tim’s been missing since last night. 

_No._ No, he knew he wouldn’t be home in the morning. He must have told Beth and Peter . . . 

_But five?!_ Another part of her brain screams. 

Steph hits speed dial and brings the phone to her ear again. The call goes straight to voicemail like Tim has his phone turned off. 

_The person you are trying to reach has not set up –_

Steph ends the call. 

What the fuck Tim? 

* * *

What had begun as mild anger has now completed the transformation into full blown panic. Steph spent the last five hours checking every surveillance spot she could think that Tim might have gone to. During the daytime. In civvies. She went to the library he likes to go to, she stopped by Monet’s, she even ran by his school before remembering it was Saturday and Tim hated the place anyways. Nothing. 

Tim’s phone is either dead or lost or crushed in some dumpster and Tim . . . Steph forces her breathing to steady. 

There is an option she hasn’t tried yet. A piece of paper in her pocket that suddenly feels very heavy. She’s sure that when Nightwing gave her the number, he didn’t actually intend for her to use it. Especially not so soon. But it’s 10 now. Steph doesn’t know what she will say if – when – Beth and Peter call again. Tim isn’t answering and she doesn’t know where else to look. 

Steph fishes the paper out of her pocket and punches the numbers viciously into her phone, like it’s Apple’s fault that Tim is missing. 

Steph puts the phone to her ear in frustration. 

A woman answers on the second ring. 

“Oracle speaking, who is this?” 

Steph closes her eyes and a small smile escapes. Oracle. Goddamn Tim. 

“Hi, my name’s Spoiler, I’m friends with Nightwing? He gave me this number in case I ever needed anything and, well, I have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steph is a good friend dammit. 
> 
> Also, a new installment of _Tim finds it harder to sneak out because people actually give a damn about him._ An ongoing saga.


	29. The Back-Up

#### November 3rd, 2018  
23:30  
Cave, Gotham

Dick is already mid-argument by the time his feet hit the bottom of the stairs. 

“Bruce,” he says, trying to keep his voice firm but devoid of anger. The last thing he needs to do is push this disagreement into a full-blown fight. 

“I’m going out. Stay here,” Batman says, reaching back to pull up his cowl. Dick catches his hand. 

“Hell, no. I’m not having this argument with Batman. B, you need back-up on this, you have me.” Dick can hear now Alfred and the kid enter the cave, slowly making their way down the steps Dick had taken at top speed. It isn’t the moment for it, but Dick has to fight back a smile as Tim gapes at the room opening up before his eyes. So, there were at least _some_ things he didn’t know. 

Bruce glances behind him and his eyes fill with anger. “What is _he_ doing here?” 

Dick glances back and to his credit, Tim only looks mildly offended. Alfred simply raises an eyebrow at Bruce and pushes the boy further into the cave. Dick admires that man. 

“I invited him down.” Dick levels at Bruce, dropping his hand away so Bruce could pull the cowl on if he wants to. He doesn’t. “B, you need back-up on this and I’m going with you. Or I’m following you. Don’t waste half your energy trying to stop me, you’ll need all of it for Two-Face.” 

“Wait, you guys aren’t going just the two of you?” Tim finds his voice, interrupting the glaring match between the two men. 

“We can’t endanger anyone else’s life. We’ll call for back-up once we have the situation under control,” Dick says. Tim glances at him bewildered. 

“Well, where the hell is Robin?” Tim blurts out and Dick stills. 

“No, Robin’s not coming.” Bruce pauses. “I fired him.” 

“What?!” the voice that rips through the cave is shrill with anger and Dick briefly wonders if it’s his own. He’d certainly wanted to say that but belatedly he realized he’s still frozen in shock at Bruce’s words. And the voice is higher than Dick’s, belonging to a child. 

Dick finally turns his glare away from Bruce and glances over. Tim Drake looks _pissed._

“Are you crazy?” The kid asks, advancing now on Bruce who is seething in his own anger. Dick watches with a certain morbid fascination, like a car accident about to happen that he can’t look away from. 

“It isn’t your concern,” Bruce growls and the hairs on Dick’s own neck stand up at the tone. 

“To hell it isn’t,” the kid shoots back advancing now. _Advancing on Batman._ It’s like the cars have spun out and an engine fire has spread. He’s just watching the flames get closer and closer to the fuel tank, waiting for the explosion. “You can’t fire Robin. Batman _needs_ Robin.” 

“I don’t need anyone,” Bruce hisses back and the kid actually flinches away, hands shaking before they are clenched tightly into small fists. Dick realizes Tim might actually be terrified, but he is pushing through the fear. 

Bruce turns on Dick now. “Get dressed now or stay behind, I don’t care,” he says and pulls his cowl up. 

Dick turns to Tim. “Listen, kid. Everything will be fine.” He looks behind Tim at Alfred. “Keep him here until we get back?” Dick asks, backing up and grabbing the Nightwing suit he stashes in the cave. He jumps in the Batmobile before Batman can think of leaving without him. 

Looks like he’ll be changing in the car. 

* * *

“Thank you,” Tim says again, trying not to talk and chew at the same time as he finished off the sandwich Alfred apparently wasn’t joking about forcing him to eat. There was something about the air of British staunchness permeating from Alfred that makes Tim stand a little straighter and wipe the grease off his face. Suddenly years of table manner lessons fly back to him and the back of his hands ache. 

But Alfred doesn’t demand politeness the same way his parents used to, he demands it in a way Tim is wholly unfamiliar with, the desire to ask for a napkin coming from deep in the pit of Tim’s stomach, rather than from his head. 

The two have been quietly pacing around the cave. Okay, Tim is pacing around the cave. Alfred busies himself cleaning out or searching through some back locker, sifting through what looked like black Kevlar to Tim. 

He feels like he should say something, but he doesn’t know how to start. But he can’t shake this horrible gut feeling inside of him that he needs to help Batman and Nightwing. He can’t shake this cold fear that has gripped his heart ever since they left the cave. But he doesn’t know how to convince Alfred Pennyworth that he needs to leave. 

“Agent A,” a woman’s voice fills the cave and Tim jumps with surprise. Alfred merely turns to the cave’s computer. 

“Yes, Oracle?” Alfred asks, voice calm like this is completely normal. Tim nearly chokes. Oracle. 

“You got a Tim Drake in there with you?” she asks, voice light 

Alfred simply turns to Tim and raises an eyebrow. After a moment, Tim realizes Alfred is prompting his response. 

“Oh, uh, that’s me,” Tim stumbles. 

“Got a friend on the line who says she’s been looking for you. I’ll patch her in,” Oracle replies, a smile in her voice. A friend? Tim’s mind whirls with possibilities when a familiar voice now echoes through the speakers. 

“Tim, I have a bone to pick with you.” 

“Steph?” Tim asks, completely bewildered. Tim whips his head around the cave and Alfred wordlessly points to a small microphone attached the cave’s main console. Holy crap, he’d have to look at that later. 

“Oh my god, Steph wha – “ 

“No, I get to talk,” Steph cuts off angrily. “You’re hanging out with Nightwing?” 

Tim furrows his eyebrow. “What? No. Well, he was here, I guess. But – “ 

“No, I’m not done,” Steph continues, her tone angry but Tim can hear underlying relief. “Do you know – my god I sound like my mother – how worried I’ve been? You didn’t think to call or text or just check in ‘hey haven’t been brutally murdered on the streets of Gotham, xoxo.’” 

“xoxo?” Tim repeats, a smile on his face now. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed Steph. 

“It means hugs and kisses,” she snaps. Tim can hear Steph sigh. “Oh my god,” she moans now. “I can’t even be mad at you about this because this is some left over shit about no one ever caring about where you were your whole life. I swear to god Tim, a text wouldn’t kill you.” 

Tim leaves the first comment alone for now. “My phone died,” he tells her. 

He can almost imagine Steph groaning into her hands. “Oh my god that is the most mundane excuse ever. Next time you go missing for twenty-four hours I’m expecting a tale of monsters and heroics.” 

“Hm, I suppose I could spin something up with a hearty dose of intrigue.” 

“Ooh, don’t tell me anything else. You know I hate spoilers.” 

Tim groans now. “Seriously Steph?” 

“Speaking of seriously, here’s one. What are you _seriously_ doing with Batman?” Steph’s tone is light but Tim slouches at her words. 

“It’s um, a long story.” 

“Ooh, goodie. Cliff Notes version.” 

Tim chews his lip, hoping he isn’t making a mistake. “Well I figured out why Vinnie was meeting with Two-Face,” he starts, and Steph falls especially silent on the other end. “Two-Face was blackmailing him to cut half the drugs Maroni ships in through the harbor with aconite. Basically, a poison. Trying to ruin the Maroni name.” 

Steph is deadly silent on the other end for a full minute and Tim wonders if he accidentally hung up on her. 

“Shit,” she finally replies. “So Nightwing and Batman are going to stop the drugs from getting on the streets?” she asks. 

“No, hopefully the GCPD is taking care of that. Batman and Nightwing are going after Two-Face.” 

“What?” Steph’s voice is hard now. “Tim, we have to help them.” 

Tim’s eyes slink over to Alfred, who is simply waiting patiently with a small bag in his hands. 

“I know that Steph,” Tim says through gritted teeth. “But you’re on speakerphone.” 

Steph sighs and Tim can almost hear her roll her eyes. “Uh, hello? Whoever is listening in on this call? Tim needs to go help Batman and Nightwing because they have been completely incompetent this entire investigation.” 

Tim turns towards Alfred. “She didn’t mean that,” he says hurriedly. 

“No, I did,” Steph responds. 

Alfred looks to have a bemused smile on his face as he goes over to the console and hits what Tim can only assume is the mute button. 

“I’m inclined to believe your friend,” he says, and then he gives Tim a grave look. “And while I understand your desire to see this through, I must warn you," Alfred's voice has gotten sharp and punctuated. "Two-Face is not like any other villain in Gotham. He is entirely dependent on the literal flip of a coin. He – “ Alfred pauses, frowning. 

“You’re worried about them,” Tim says, eyes widening. Alfred seems to regard him warily. 

“I always worry about them. But yes, tonight I am particularly concerned.” 

“Because of Robin,” Tim guesses. Alfred’s eyes shoot over to Tim’s, leaking pain, and Tim wishes he could take the words back. After a moment Alfred simply purses his lips. 

“Among other things, yes.” 

Tim meets Alfred’s eyes now. “Let me help them,” he says simply. 

There is something in Alfred’s eyes that makes Tim think he is going to say no. Tell Tim not to worry, reassure him that this is Batman and Nightwing and that everything is going to be fine. 

Instead, Alfred simply nods. He pulls the black Kevlar out of the bag he has been holding and lifts his finger from the mute button. 

“Steph, you know where Cowen’s Bar is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm sorry I don't make the rules but everyone has to compliment me on my Spoiler pun. It's the law.


	30. The Flip

#### November 4th, 2018  
02:20  
Cowen’s Bar, Gotham

“Alright, you’re going by Kid One and Kid Two on the comms, who wants to be Kid One?” Barbara asks, fingers flying over the keys as she tries to get eyes in the area. Cowen’s Bar was situated on a street where broken windows were more common than undamaged ones. A wholly unsurprising fact, but an inconvenient one. It also meant that any cameras in the area were long since shattered as well. Barbara needed to install lapel cameras on everyone’s suit or something. Make things easier for her. 

“You know, Oracle, Tim is a big fan of yours,” Steph says, her voice teasing. 

Tim, to his credit, gives a small laugh. 

“Alright, Tim is Kid One,” Barbara says with a smile. She’s only kind of joking about the Kid One/Two thing. The two need alias’ so no one shouts their names in the field. 

“Hey, wait a minute, I was here first.” 

“Steph, I beat you to Cowen’s,” Tim replies. 

“No, I mean on this Earth first dummy,” Steph shoots back. Barbara rolls her eyes, trying not to smile. The banter is achingly familiar and for a moment, it is her and Dick on that roof, waiting for a signal. 

It’s also a welcome reprieve from how she has spent most of her night already. Convincing the GCPD to raid Montoya’s had not been an easy task, even though her dad had been receptive to the idea from Batman when they met of the roof of the GCPD hours ago. The problem, Jim Gordon explained, was apparently with the officers. Rumors had been flying about Batman and Robin killing a criminal and apparently the police force that had once been so willing to help was entirely divided on whether or not they should even be trusting these vigilantes anymore. It’s why Tim’s calls and tips were suddenly being ignored, a mysterious tipster too similar, with his nearly omnipresent knowledge, to the vigilantes to be trusted. 

Her dad hadn’t asked whether or not the rumor was true, and Barbara was still wondering that, the thought nagging at the back of her mind. Did he not care, or did he simply dismiss the allegation? Somehow, Barbara can’t entirely convince herself he would do either. 

Eventually, Jim Gordon had convinced the patrol officers to take the threat at Montoya’s seriously. It hadn’t been hard. All he’d done was ask, and of course, they had far too much respect for _him_ to disobey. 

“Okay, Spoiler and _Kid,_ ” Barbara cuts in. “I’m taking your channel off discreet. Keep the comms clear except for emergencies.” 

The two fall silent and Barbara continues her search for a camera in the area. There’s a red-light camera a block away, but the resolution isn’t good enough and the angle isn’t right for her to gets eyes on Cowen’s. 

“Batman, any update?” Barbara says through the main channel. Barbara has their trackers pulled up on screen, a map of the city overlaid to show their location. In the background, she listens to the police set up a roadblock around the storage warehouse Barbara spent the first few hours of her night tracing back to the Maroni family, in case anyone is still there this late at night and tries to flee. 

“Nothing to report, O,” Nightwing responds. Not a good sign. Silent treatment it is. Batman hadn’t been entirely understanding regarding her support of Tim and Steph being lookouts tonight. “Literally nothing. Cowen’s is cleared out, completely empty.” 

“You think the kid got Two-Face’s base wrong?” Barbara asks. 

“No, I mean this place is literally empty. No chairs, no tables, nothing behind the bar. The back is completely cleared out. There’s no sign of _anyone_ here.” 

“Wait, Nightwing –“ 

The first words Batman speaks tonight are cut off by a loud screech of static that fills Barbara’s ear and her heart lurches into her throat. 

“Batman? Come in?” Barbara asks, her voice steady because her voice is always steady. Dammit why didn’t she have eyes in the area. She considers commandeering the nearest satellite, Oliver Queen would _not_ be happy, but it’s too far away to do any good. 

“Shit,” Spoiler’s voice is filled with a panic Barbara can’t let herself feel. 

Dammit, dammit, dammit. 

“There was no explosion,” a voice in her ear speaks and it’s calm but tight. It’s the kid. Barbara uses it to ground herself. “The building collapsed. Targeted explosives,” Tim continues. “Probably not enough on hand to actually blow up the building, just take out the support beams.” 

Barbara tries to focus. This is good news, even if it seems just as terrible. “It was a demolition,” she agrees. 

“That means they’re in that wreckage somewhere,” the kid speaks, and Barbara can hear a grunt, the smallest bit of noise through the comm. 

“Nightwing?” She asks, her heart in her throat. 

“No,” a graveled voice fills the comms and Barbara hearts lifts in the slightest. Batman is okay. But where – 

“Spoiler and I are moving in,” the kid says and Barbara tries to focus. 

“No wait – “ she starts. 

“We’ll be careful. Spoiler come around to my side of the building where there is more cover. Use the roofs to move. They need help, Oracle. Preferably before Two-Face gets here.” 

Barbara knows he’s right. Goddammit he’s right. 

“No, wait – “ Batman tries again but Barbara can hear he’s trapped under something and there’s a wetness to his voice. 

“Move in Kid. Be careful. Two-Face was likely watching the building, waiting.” 

“Understood.” 

Barbara knows which side of the building Tim and Steph are approaching from and the satellite image of the area she has pulled up, taken a few months ago, shows what looks to be sufficient landscaping that will allow the two to sneak up to the building. It’s November now, so the vegetation will be sparser, but there isn’t any other option. They should be able to stay hidden with the dust cloud Cowen’s made as it collapsed. It’s useless for her to try and look for Nightwing or Batman, she has no eyes in the area. 

But there is _someone_ she can look for. 

He has to be nearby. Somewhere close enough to see the explosion. But not too close, where Batman might not walk into his trap. Across the street from Cowen’s was all residential. Renting an apartment? Too complicated. Killing the family inside an apartment and watching the show? Only if the coin let him. 

Behind Cowen’s was a gas station, no dice there. Even at this time of night, with the highway not too far, there would be customers and employees. Too populated. 

A business down the street is foreclosed, but it’s too far. No, it has to be closer. Batman and Nightwing swept the buildings to the right and left, both stores closed for business for the day. 

_There,_ Barbara pulls the zoning office files up on the main monitor. One building down, across the street. Offices for lease, but largely vacant. 

“Spoiler, Kid. Two-Face is likely approaching from the northeast. It would help to get eyes out there.” 

“Come on, take my hand,” the kid is saying, and Barbara really wishes she had a goddamn camera to work with. In her ear, she hears the ‘all-clear’ of the warehouse raid and the police confirm over the radio they have twenty backpacks in evidence. The moment of victory squashed as the dire situation plays out in her other ear. 

“Spoiler you have him?” Tim is asking, voice steady amidst the panic. 

“Yeah, shit, he’s heavy,” Steph says. 

There is silence on the comms for a moment and Barbara hates it. Hates the feeling of not knowing. She doesn’t miss being out there, not anymore. She misses some things, but she’s carved a little place out for herself, a role she’s proud to play and a role she’s damn good at. But she hates this part. The waiting. The not knowing. She sweeps in vain once more for a camera in the area. 

“I see him,” a small voice whispers over the comms. Then louder, “he’s just standing across the street.” It takes Barbara a crucial second to process the context of what the kid is saying. 

“Don’t approach.” Batman says and Barbara can hear him more clearly, now. Steph must have pulled the wreckage off him, but his voice still sounds wet and she would be surprised if he doesn’t have at least a few broken ribs. 

“He’s got a crowbar or something in his hand.” A sharp breath. “And his coin.” 

There is silence now on the comms and Barbara aches to know what is happening. Tim fell back, right? Dammit, she really needs those lapel cameras, to hell with what Bruce says. 

After a full minute of silence Barbara speaks, because she _has_ to. “Nightwing?” 

“You stay and find Nightwing,” Batman says, gravelly voice almost hoarse. 

Barbara isn’t sure if he is talking to Steph or Tim because neither reply, but she hopes it’s both of them. 

Then Barbara’s blood runs cold. “Dent,” Batman says, and Barbara is reminded why Two-Face is such a dangerous villain. Sure, he plots and schemes and dredges up mystery and intrigue but being Two-Face isn’t what makes him dangerous. 

It’s being Harvey Dent. One of the earliest partners of Batman and her father. Barbara can still see the look on her dad’s face when they got call about Harvey – no Two-Face – being in the hospital. They had been having a movie night. Barbara can’t even remember what movie. They never finished it. 

Because Harvey Dent had been a good man. And Barbara can hear that now in Batman’s voice. The regret. Because when Scarecrow and Two-Face escaped Arkham in April, everyone expected hell to rain on the city. But Scarecrow was caught right away. And Harvey – no, Dent – no, Two-Face – was quiet. And you could see, despite him being an escaped criminal, despite the killing and the plots and the schemes, part of her dad wanted Two-Face to _stay_ quiet. No, he wanted _Harvey Dent_ to stay quiet. Because that meant he was okay. 

“So, just the two of us,” Barbara hears the distant voice in her ear, a rough coarse voice that is more a growl than speech. It’s the voice of Two-Face, so very different from the mellow inflection of Harvey Dent Barbara remembers hearing from the living room when she was a girl, whenever her father had to deal with a particularly high-profile case. 

“It’s over Harvey, GCPD intercepted the drugs,” Batman growls back but somehow, it sounds more human to Barbara. She hadn’t relayed the success of GCPD’s raid over the comms and she wonders if it was a lucky guess, but knowing Bruce, he was probably tracking GCPD response time in his head. 

She pauses for a moment as the field test comes back for the drugs found at the warehouse, confirming aconite. 

“Hm, I heard a rumor about a bird,” Two-Face continues, not seeming too concerned with the failure at the dealership. Barbara sends out notice of Two-Face’s location to the GCPD, hoping they will be more receptive to the tip now. She also notifies them about the bombs, if they come, they’ll have to sweep the area before they move in. That means help will be slow and reluctant, if it comes at all. “Seems to have metaphorically flown the nest. Although I certainly didn’t see any yellow, red or green back there, Bats. Perhaps he’s literally flown the coop as well?” 

Barbara is still running a trace on where he bought that much aconite. It isn’t an easy substance to come across in pure form. 

“Dent – “ Batman growls and Barbara wants to yell to just take him down. But she knows Bruce won’t, he’s giving Harvey a chance to turn himself in, to stop himself. Barbara wishes he would just call him Two-Face. 

In her other ear, the GCPD report they are in route, on their way to provide back up to Batman against Two-Face. She makes sure they have alerted the bomb squad, and they have. 

“I got him, Spoiler, he’s here,” Tim’s voice brings Barbara’s attention back and she’s confused for a moment what he’s talking about. _Dick._

“Vital signs kid?” Barbara asks, keeping her voice level. She talks quietly, trying to listen in on Two-Face simultaneously. 

“Of course, it’s entirely possible he is back there. See this eye, Bats? Color-blind!” Barbara can hear the grin in Two-Face’s voice. Dammit, Bruce, he’s gone, it’s just Two-Face now. Take him down. 

“Wait don’t lift that,” Spoiler’s voice fills the comms. Two-Face is still talking. 

“No reds or greens or yellows, it just sees. It sees everyone and everything and let me tell you this, Bats. We all have a side of our face we want to hide,” Two-Face’s growl deepens into something truly demonic. 

“Is that what you’re doing Dent, trying to hide?” Batman’s voice is eerily calm. 

“Unconscious, but his heartbeat is strong, O,” Tim reports over the comms and Barbara lets out a breath. 

“Okay, the Batmobile –“Barbara starts. 

“I know,” Steph cuts in. “I got him,” she says, and Barbara assumes that means she’ll help Tim get Nightwing to the Batmobile. She tries to focus again on Batman. She shouldn’t be so worried, but her hands are clammy. Nightwing is unconscious. Batman has no back-up now. 

“Me? Trying to hide? Don’t you get it. Bats I’m the only one who _sees_!” _He’s definitely gone mental now, come on Bruce._ Almost like she’s spoken out loud she hears a shuffle, the familiar sound of Batman going into action, but just as quickly, she hears another blast of static. Another bomb went off. But before Barbara can let worry set in, she hears Batman’s grunt. There’s pain it, but it’s loud in her ear. 

_Come, B, wrap this up so I can send the GCPD in._ She watches on the monitor as they set up a roadblock with a hundred-meter perimeter. Close, but not close enough to go in if something goes bad. They’re scanning for bombs but it’s frustratingly slow. 

The sounds of a struggle cease. 

“A side they hide from the rest of the world,” Two-Face’s voice is louder, like he is close to Batman’s ear. “A side they hide from you. The _real_ side. Is that what happened to your bird? Did you see his other side and it find not so pretty? Not so full of reds and greens and yellows?” 

Another grunt and Barbara can hear the low rumble of Two-Face’s growl once again in the distance. 

“Batman,” Barbara warns now, not sure how much Harvey Dent is affecting him or how much this talk of Jason is affecting him. 

“And what about your other side, Batman?” 

“Master Richard and Miss Stephanie are back in the cave,” Alfred reports tersely in her ear on a discreet channel. “Some bruises and a possible concussion seem to be the extent of the injuries.” 

“Good – wait, where’s the kid?” Barbara asks, pulling the trackers up on the overlaid map of the city. Tim’s tracker still blinks downtown near Bruce’s. “Dammit,” she mutters. 

_It’ll be okay. You wanted Bruce to have back-up, right?_ Well, she had but – commotion on the end of her comm pulls her thoughts up short. 

It sounds like a scuffle, but no one has spoken. Barbara refrains from calling out and demanding an update. God, what she wouldn’t give for some lapel camera’s right now. 

“Are there any more bombs on the street, Harvey,” Batman is asking in a rushed low voice. A gargled laugh, clearly in pain. 

“I’d say there’s a 50/50 chance.” 

Bruce sighs. “Oracle, tell GCPD to finish their sweep and to be careful.” Barbara has already relayed the information, heart rate settling to a normal pace. 

“And good job, kid,” Batman adds after a moment. Barbara smiles. 

“Uh, thanks,” the hesitant voice of Tim Drake is soft in her ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always liked the idea of what it is like for Barbara on the other side of the comms. I just imagine she is doing a thousand different things all at once. Also plot hole patched. Obviously there was a _reason_ the GCPD stopped taking Tim's tips. Ye of little faith.
> 
> Ta-Da! Crisis adverted. Gotham saved. At least, for now.


	31. The Innocents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: references to child murder

#### November 4th, 2018  
04:30  
Various Terrible Places, Bludhaven

Jason Todd does his homework. He’s a good student, the kind that teachers love, who turns in every assignment, pays attention in class and genuinely seems to enjoy learning. Maybe it’s the fact that he missed the final years of elementary school, too busy worrying about where he was going to find his next meal to worry about how to divide three-digit numbers. Or maybe it is just who he is. Because Jason Todd does his homework. 

It isn’t hard to find father Jose Cabrera, a Franciscan priest at Our Lady of the Assumption, a rather old catholic church located on the outskirts of one of the poorer slums on Bludhaven, diagnosed with uveal melanoma, which Jason surmises after a quick trip on WebMD, is essentially eye-cancer. 

He likely breaks more than a few HIPAA laws (okay, he makes _Roy_ break a few HIPAA laws) to see the diagnosis came only a few months ago, the doctor’s notes stating it’s likely not metastatic, and easily operable due to its location. Good things according to WebMD. Father Jorge Cabrera can be perfectly healthy for just the reasonable price of $70,000. 

After a little searching, Jason finds a GoFundMe page the church set up, explaining they have found a doctor willing to perform the surgery pro-bono, but still need money for the anesthesiologist and the rest of the surgical team. There is a pitiful amount of $946 in the account. 

While Jason does this, Roy tracks down the kids – at least as best he can. Roy explains how the kid dealers popped up on the streets last month, leading him to cross references the names Jason was given with school records in the area of the church, looking to see if any child between the ages of nine and thirteen dropped out of school around the time the dealers showed up. 

Roy finds three of them. Luis Herrera, nine-years-old, Shawn Dyson, ten-years-old and Osam Husain, thirteen-years-old. Roy guesses the girl in the corner called ‘Ellie’ might have Elena Adams, seven-years-old, but he can’t confirm it. Father Jose was listed an emergency contact for all three of them. Osam has a long list on truancy issues, he was a ward of the state, in foster care, and the system seemed to be treating him as well as it ever treated Jason. He had an uncle who worked for the Bludhaven Police Department, in Narcotics, and quick hack (Roy was proving to be _slightly_ useful) into their systems found an open IA case suspecting the man of skimming heroin from several busts. He reported his own firearm missing a month ago and Jason found two other guns registered in his name. 

Luis still had a living relative listed as an emergency contact alongside Father Jose, an aunt with an impressively long list of prostitution and drug charges on record. She had four kids of her own. Shawn looked to be a frequent visitor at the emergency room and Jason saw he’d been removed from his father’s custody only six months ago when some doctor finally decided to call CPS. 

It’s what Jason expected. 

He can’t sleep that night. He hears Roy’s faint snores from Dick’s bedroom and even though part of him screams to run, to get out, he can’t force himself to leave. 

And goddammit. 

He couldn’t just leave those kids. 

He doesn’t have to think long about his target. Penguin keeps a long list of business holdings to hide his cash in and he and Bruce had looked them over for a case just two weeks ago. Hacking into the bank takes most of the night, but Oracle has back doors set up into most so -called secure systems and it hadn’t taken long to find them on Dick’s laptop. 

Getting the money to father Jose was another story. If these kids don’t check the GoFundMe, this whole scheme is for nothing. The sun is rising by now and Jason transfers a thousand more of Penguin’s money into a local bank in Bludhaven and slips out before Roy wakes up. He leaves a note by the cereal simply saying _Not Dead._

The bank opens at six, Jason is there at seven. The GoFundMe already has over its goal, but Jason needs to know the kids are aware it, so he empties the account he made last night and grips the envelope tightly, winding his way by memory through the back alleyways he followed Luis through two nights before. 

There is almost a definite skip in Jason’s step. 

_This_ is what he wants to do. It’s why he puts on the uniform. Maybe not originally, but somewhere over the last three years, things have changed. So much, and yet almost not at all. For the first time since that horrible night in Gotham, Jason feels like he is doing the _right_ thing. 

And that’s when he hears the sirens. 

Even rounding the corner, Jason knows something is wrong. There’s black billowing smoke and a fire engine. Water being sprayed on a burning building. 

But that isn’t what worries Jason’s. It’s the six ambulances parked outside a seemingly vacant warehouse (no, not a warehouse, a residence), lights off, engines killed. Paramedics sitting, head in hands on the bumpers, probably realizing they have rushed to the scene for nothing. 

Jason can no longer feel his legs moving but he is suddenly there, at the barrier, being held back by the strong arm of a police officer. The man is moving his mouth, looking at Jason with . . . concern? Annoyance? 

“Sir, you have to stay back.” Jason hears the words, but he feels like he is underwater, and the sound travelling to him thick and muffled. 

“Sir?” Jason is no longer holding the envelope. He may have dropped it. The officer? He was talking to Jason, right? He said something to him? 

Jason looks at the officer again and his mouth is still moving, and he’s looking at Jason, but Jason can’t hear words. 

Then, a sharp voice comes into focus. 

“Probably six or seven bodies,” the voice says, clear, cutting through the water Jason feels around his head. “The ME will have to sort through the pieces before we can say for sure. 

“They can tell from the size at least that they were all kids.” 

“Runaways, probably. It will be hard to get an ID from any of this.” 

“I know.” A deep sigh. “Shit.” 

“I fucking hate this job.” 

And then suddenly Jason is not there. He’s back in front of his laptop. He hears Roy in the kitchen. He thinks the older boy may have tried to say something to Jason, but Jason didn’t acknowledge him. 

The closest hospital to the alleyway is Mercy General, but these men wouldn’t have gone to a hospital. There is a clinic. Only a few more blocks away. Peter Hastings came in that night with a broken arm. It is another hour before Jason pulls up his mug shot and matches him to the East Street Gang, a small but bloody group that live not two blocks up from the burning building. 

They don’t even deal in heroin. 

It’s almost evening when Jason leaves. 

He has no Kevlar. He doesn’t have any weapons. He pulls an extra domino mask from Dick’s closet and throws on the same red sweatshirt he’s worn for days now. He has a name. Paul Gomez. BPD identified him as the new leader of the gang, after a bloodied coup not eight months ago. Initiated at fifteen, Gomez joined the military and returned home at twenty-three a demolition expert. In the months since Gomez took over, the gang has been flexing their muscles in the area. Getting bloodier and deadlier. Blowing up a local sandwich shop over a disagreement with the owner. 

The man is still in a coma. 

Jason isn’t crazy. He isn’t mad with anger. He’s not raving or blood thirsty. He’s controlled. His rage is cold inside him, numbing everything else. It isn’t like the fiery fights he gets in with Bruce, or the deep warm jealousy he feels about Dick. 

This rage makes him quiet. It makes him still. It makes him focused. 

So, he waits. 

He watches Paul Gomez drop his son off at his ex-wife’s. He watches the man talk with two men Jason recognizes from that night. He waits for them to leave. 

He watches Gomez turn off the TV and pad around his small empty house for another half hour. He watches him place the gun he kept in the back of his waist band in the nightstand by his bed. He watches him turn off the lights and activate the alarm. 

He watches him go to bed. 

And Jason slips in. He disables the alarm and eases open a window. Gomez is a light sleeper. But Jason silently pulls open the bedside drawer and slips the gun out. Gomez only opens his eyes when Jason releases the magazine and slides it back into place. 

Full. 

Jason points the gun at Gomez. 

“Wait,” the other man says, voice only tinted with mild panic. It’s unsatisfying in a way, but there’s something amusing about how he isn’t worried. “Whatever they are paying you, I’ll double it. Triple.” 

Jason looks at this man. Paul Gomez deserves death. He runs the rap sheet in his head. 

Suspect in the murder of seven children by explosive device. 

Suspect in the attempted murder of John Barkley by explosive device. 

Suspect in the decapitation of Carl Hunter. 

Suspect in the quadruple murder of Richard Lee, Isabel Lee, Katherine Lee, and Michael Lee. 

Convicted of attempted murder of Brie Larson and Hope Jacobs. 

Suspect in a long list of assault and batteries. 

Convicted of the mutilation of Ross Yates and Lauren Morales. 

Convicted of three accounts of rape. Suspected of two more. 

He’s been to prison twelve times in his life. He’s thirty-eight years old. 

He’s currently leading a usually quiet neighborhood gang into the most bloodied era of history this neighborhood has ever known. 

“It’s about those kids.” Jason’s voice is cold and calm and completely devoid of emotion. It doesn’t sound like him at all and unbiddenly the hairs on the back of his own neck stand up at the sound. 

“Listen, I had to send a message, you understand. They were operating on my turf without my permission. They knew what they were getting into.” 

All of Jason’s preaching and this was it. Paul Gomez deserves to die. 

“Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you,” the man tries again. 

Jason considers this. 

Whatever he wants. 

He puts the gun to Paul Gomez’s forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp. I'm not gonna lie this was a hard chapter for me to write.


	32. A Boy and A Girl (Reprise)

#### November 4th, 2018  
05:00  
Wayne Manor, Outside Gotham

The ride back to the cave is the longest and the shortest car ride of Tim Drake’s life. The silence makes it long. Even the comm in Tim’s ear has gone silent, Oracle’ updates of GCPD’s progress finally ceasing as officer’s arrived on scene to take Two-Face into custody. Not that Tim was there for that. Batman sent him to go wait in the Batmobile, which had _driven itself back to Cowen’s,_ Tim _needed_ to get a look at that software. When he was first sent back to the Batmobile, he has felt a surge of irritation, like a child sent his room for bad behavior. Only when he got his room, he realized it had been completely outfitted with some of the most impressive technology Tim has ever seen. He was like a child in a candy store. 

The buttons. Oh my god, the buttons. They were what made the ride far too short. He wanted to have hours to comb through the system, buttons and nobs and levers that Tim could only guess the purpose. He had briefly wondered if he could get away with popping the hood and just getting a peak at the engine inside, but Batman returned before he could even try a guess at how to open it. From the look on Batman’s face, he’d known exactly what Tim was thinking. Blushing, Tim had turned to look out his passenger side window and the two refused to speak the entire ride back to the manor. 

It was early morning by the time they finally returned and the adrenaline from the night was wearing off, daring Tim to calculate how long it had been since he last slept. Just as he is stifling his third yawn in as many minutes, Batman pulls into the cave and jumps out of the car. Had he not immediately made his way to the medical bay, where Dick Grayson laughs at something while Alfred gives him a sour look, Tim would have been offended by the gesture. 

He follows behind slowly. 

“Dick – “ Batman starts, cowl still pulled over his face making Steph, who is hovering near by, shrink back. 

Dick cuts him off with a gesture. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t be opening doors in a place that is clearly booby trapped. It was stupid and reckless. I – “ 

“Dick,” Batman says, sterner this time, making the older boy cut his words off abruptly. Batman sighs and pulls back his cowl. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Bruce says, relief obvious in his voice. Dick blinks in surprise at his mentor and Steph shoots a cautious grin his way. Bruce’s eyebrows furrow suddenly. “You _are_ okay, right?” He asks, his hand reaching up unbiddenly to the gauze wrapped around Dick’s head. 

Dick swats the hand away, a playful smile on his face and Bruce’s gruff breath almost sounds like – a laugh? 

“Yes, I’m okay.” Dick pauses, eyes meeting Tim’s, who hovers just outside the medical bay. “Thanks to you two,” he says, his bright grin now fading into something softer. 

Tim glances over at Steph, who looks back at him with wide joyful eyes. Blood rushes to his cheeks and a tight grin escapes his lips. Steph beams brighter at the reaction. 

But Tim’s grin falls away and maybe it’s the blood still pounding in his head from the adrenaline, maybe it’s the lack of food or sleep or any number of things about the absolute crazy situation, but he feels his lips moving in a question he knows he must ask. 

“Where’s Jason?” he asks, his voice surprisingly soft. Dick tenses on the medical table and any good will that lingered in the room has been sucked away by Tim’s questions and maybe he should feel bad about that, but he can’t regret asking it. Bruce is a statute by the medical bay, his face is turned away so Tim can’t get a read on it. 

When someone does finally speak, it’s Alfred. “Master Jason has decided he needs time to think through things for himself. Alone.” 

Tim furrows his brow, taking a moment to dissect the fancy words as just a roundabout way of saying _We don’t know._

“And what, you can’t find him?” Tim asks, sounding far harsher than he meant to. It’s more of an accusation at this point. 

The room is deadly silent, and Dick lets out a quiet sigh. When he speaks, it isn’t to Tim but rather to Bruce, who’s still figure has not moved. 

“We have to find him, B,” Dick says softly. 

Bruce finally snaps, glancing at his eldest. “You don’t think I’ve been looking?” There is a hard edge to his voice that makes the hairs on Tim’s neck stand, but Dick seemingly relaxes even more at the tone, finding something underneath Tim is not privy to. 

“I know you have,” Dick says, his voice stronger now. “You don’t think I’ve double checked every safe house in the city? Called his friends? Tracked every alias I know of?” Dick lets out a ragged sigh and he sounds . . . tired. 

“You trained him well, B,” Dick finally says, and the stony structure of Bruce’s shoulders now melts into something more . . . vulnerable. Tim wants to look away. He’s pretty sure Steph is adverting her gaze, the two of them feeling like intruders for simply being present. 

Tim’s throat tightens and his own feet feel unsteady beneath him. _Alone._ Tim was somewhat of an expert on alone. And the two men in front of him, even standing at a distance with tense postures and downcast eyes, Tim can tell are leaning on each other. 

“When I run away,” Tim’s voice is small and if it weren’t for the absolute silence of the cave, he’s sure no one would hear him. But they do hear. “I go someplace I want someone to find me.” 

The two men have opposite reactions, Dick stiffening at the words, becoming tense, muscles coiling for action, and Bruce weakening at them, letting his shoulders finally sag and the last of his held breath leaving his body. 

“We need to get you home,” Steph pokes Tim after the room falls silent. He hadn’t notice when she had come over to hover beside him, but she looks nervously at him now. “Beth and Peter are probably looking for you.” 

Tim glances back at her, bewildered, like he’s run through a thousand scenarios of how the night would play out and not once considered someone would be looking for him. 

“Tim,” the name sounds awkward on Batman’s lips and Tim’s head swings back over, eyes wide with surprise. The older man’s lips are pressed together, and Tim can’t tell if he’s mad or thoughtful. Maybe he’s both. “Tomorrow I’d like to speak to you about the algorithm you used to find and stitch together the image of Rowe.” 

There is a beat of silence in the cave, the only movement a slow smile growing of Dick’s lips. Tim’s mouth is dry, and he can’t do more than nod at this point, heart pounding indomitably in his chest 

“Come along now. I will drive you into the city,” Alfred speaks abruptly, the cave finally grinding back to life. Tim allows himself one last sparing glance into the cave before following Alfred and Steph up the winding staircase. 

* * *

Steph can’t keep her leg still. She can feel the car hum beneath her as Alfred pulls closer and closer to her house in the Narrows, but the small movement isn’t enough to quiet her twitchy hands and shaking leg. She keeps glancing over at Tim, to see if he is developing the same buzz of excitement, but he is just staring somberly out the window, completely still. 

“Nightwing said he would help me,” the words burst through her lips finally, unable to hold back the admission any longer. She planned on talking to Tim alone, but Alfred presence didn’t impose upon them and she couldn’t keep silent any longer. 

Tim shakes himself from turmoil of thought in his brain and glances over at her. Steph holds her breath. 

He breaks into a grin. 

“Steph that’s great,” Tim says, his voice is light and a little surprised, but genuine. Steph lets a _whoosh_ of air escape her lips and a grin spreads across her face. 

“We made a deal. I won’t patrol without him, and he’s going to come to Gotham more regularly. On the nights off, he’ll give me exercises and training to work on. It’s not perfect,” she bites her lip. “It’s less of a contract, more of an ongoing negotiation.” 

Tim is _definitely_ happy now and Steph’s heart is aching. She’s sure he’s overlooked what this really means, too caught up in making sure he acts like – _no, actually_ – supports her. Her leg starts bouncing again and Tim’s eyes flicker over to it. 

“Steph, this _is_ great, right?” He asks, his voice now unsure. She can’t meet his eyes anymore. 

“It means . . . Well. I mean. I won’t be able to. . . I can’t –“ she pauses. 

“You won’t be able to meet up anymore,” Tim finishes for her, slowly, his voice is now carefully neutral. Faster than Steph can blink, he reaches over and grabs her hand and Steph’s eyes shoot back up to his, a smile playing sadly on his face. 

“Steph, this is good. And we’ll be good,” he says simply, shrugging while he does it. He says it so confidently, with absolutely surety, Steph has to believe him. It’s his voice when he tells her how the clues add up, when he reports back to her what evidence he found. It’s his _fact_ voice, and Tim doesn’t get information wrong. 

Alfred pulls the car up in front of Steph’s house and kindly tells the pair that they have arrived. He pauses only for a moment as Tim insists that he can get out here as well, his house not far away, which isn’t exactly a lie. Alfred pauses only for a moment gently reminding Tim about meeting to explain the algorithm and Tim gives a tight smile. 

After a significant look toward Steph, indicating he noticed that something is seriously off about Tim, Alfred drives off. 

Steph watches Tim now, hands shoved in the pockets of a sweatshirt that looks like it has been freshly washed, eyes cast downward but lips resolutely sealed. Something is bothering him, but the tension in his shoulders tells her he isn’t going to tell her what. 

So, Steph talks instead. 

“Nightwing also said he could help get my mom into a rehab center not far from here,” she says quietly, and the loud bustle of morning traffic almost drowns out her voice. When Tim doesn’t speak, she wonders if maybe he couldn’t hear her. 

Then he looks over, a shy smile on his lips. “Steph,” he says. “That’s amazing.” 

Steph suddenly can’t meet his intense gaze and her mouth starts moving faster than she can think. “It’s probably pointless though, she always stops drinking after a while and then my dad gets out of jail and she starts up again. Anyways, it’s like a dumb evening and weekend thing, like camp or some stupid shit but I could still live with her while she goes through the steps which I guess is a good thing. Or maybe I’ll just make everything worse.” 

“It’s a good thing,” Tim insists. 

“If she even goes,” Steph groans. 

“She’ll do it,” Tim replies confidently. Steph glances over, eyebrows raised. 

“How do you figure that?” She asks. Tim seems to give this intense thought and he looks at Steph with a serious expression. 

“Because you’ll convince her. And she loves you. It’s what you want, so she’ll go for you,” he says. 

Steph’s eyes widen with shock. She gapes at Tim, wondering how he got this idea. Thinking back, she can’t recall doing anything but complain to Tim about her mom. She told him of short-tempered conversations and slammed doors. Of lies and the bitter taste of alcohol. She’s never told Tim about the days her mom would sneak into her bedroom and shut off Steph’s alarm, declaring the day a ‘mandatory sick day’ and how Steph would ask her mom if she was sick and her mom would pause and lunge at Steph and poke her in the stomach and say, ‘sick of work,’ with a tinkling laugh and the two would drive all the way out to the shore just to feel the sand in their toes. She never told Tim about the nights when her mom would rent the oldest movie from Redbox and bring home pizza and they would sit on the floor, never the couch, and mock the dialog and special effects and eat the pizza crust first because society sometimes creates arbitrary rules and Steph doesn’t always have to follow them. 

But Tim looks at Steph like he knows these things and Steph finally manages a smile. 

“You’re right,” she says and Tim smiles. 

“I always am.” 

* * *

Tim steels himself before rounding the corner, the foreboding taste of consequences souring in the back of his mouth. His legs feel heavy as he pushes himself forward. 

He could blame it on exhaustion, but he knows the lead soles of his sneakers that drag his feet and scuff the pavement have more to do with the police car and white and blue sedan parked in front of Beth and Peter’s town home. 

His heart thuds in his chest as he climbs up the steps, pushing the door open as voices abruptly cutting themselves off inside. 

“Tim!?” Beth recovers first, jumping to her feet while the three other figures huddling together, once talking in low voices, glance strangely at each other. Beth composes herself enough not to race over, settling instead for a brisk walk and letting Tim meet her halfway. Her arms open for a moment and she looks ready to wrap Tim in an embrace but pulls short as he stiffens in preparation for the contact. She settles for places a hand on his shoulders. 

She’s smiling. Beaming. It makes Tim’s stomach drop even lower. 

“We were so worried!” she says softly and Tim’s stomach twists unhappily now. He knows he should have an excuse; he needs to tell her something. He should have been thinking about it on the way back, planning and analyzing, it’s what he’s usually good at. But all he did was stare blankly out the window and all he can do now is look at Beth with that same vacant expression, his mouth dry. 

Behind Beth, the other figures start to move and it’s easier for Tim to focus on them. A police officer, a young man in his early twenties, looks a mixture of relief and irritation, that Tim has both been found and also that there seemed to be no cause for panic in the first place. He’s holding a few papers in his hand and more are laid out on the table. He turns to Peter, who himself is wearing a similar expression of relief mingled with apprehension, and cuts through the silence of the house saying, 

“I’ll leave these copies here for you, and close up the report at the station. Looks like I’m not needed anymore.” His voice is light but twists into something sympathetic and sad. 

Tim lets Beth hold onto him a little longer while the officer shakes Peter and the other woman’s hand, before breezing by Beth with a murmured apology and shutting the door behind him. 

It’s silent in the room for another moment and then the woman clears her throat next to Peter. Tim meets her eyes. 

“Well, Tim,” she says, papers of her own in her hands and she gathers them into a tidy stack. “I’m glad to see your safe, you gave us all quite the scare.” Her voice is tired. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim finally forces himself to say. He can’t look at Beth. He can’t look over at Peter. He makes himself hold the stern look of the woman and she smooths out her blouse and slides the papers into a folder with the bold label _Child Protection Service_ on the side. 

The woman approaches now, and Beth finally drops her hands away, stepping back and looking over to Peter. The two seem to be having a silent conversation that Tim can’t decipher. He forces himself to watch the woman from CPS. 

“Tim you were gone for over twenty-four hours and Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had to file a missing person’s report with the police,” she says, bending down to his height as if to, Tim doesn’t know, build trust? His cheeks flush and he glances away. 

“Tim you have to know there are consequences to these actions,” she says, and she sounds so tired. As tired as Tim feels. 

Of course, he knows there are consequences. He’s been avoiding thinking about them all night. There are _always_ consequences for choices but when Tim plays the last thirty-six hours back, he can’t figure out when exactly he made a choice. There had been no choice. Or maybe there had been a choice, and this was just the feeling of knowing that even with the consequences, he would still make those same decisions again, no matter how dark the shame burned in his belly. He just couldn’t look at Beth’s face. 

The CPS lady hesitates. Tim doesn’t even know her name. He doesn’t want to. She has a sympathetic look on her face. “You’ve run away from three foster homes now, Tim,” she says gently and the tone of her voice . . . Tim pinches his eyes, refusing to let tears fall. “That means we have to put in your file that you’re a flight risk. You can’t stay with first time foster parents.” 

Tim nods numbly. Consequences. 

“I’ll give you a minute to get your things,” the woman says. 

Tim nods again. _I didn’t unpack,_ his brain whispers, but Tim doesn’t say this out loud. Beth is shifting sadly only a few feet away from him, a horrible expression on her face that Tim can’t fathom the emotion causing it. He doesn’t want to look at her, but he does. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice tight, betraying the devastation leaking into his voice. 

Beth hesitates and then before Tim can react pulls him into a hug. He can feel her pounding heart on his own and he wants to push away from her so he can at least have the silence back. 

After a moment, she lets go and he stumbles back from the contact. 

His own heart races, pounding waves against into the base of his skull and he turns upstairs to grab his bag. 

He lingers in the room trying to take his time, so Beth won’t know he never unpacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One! More! Chapter!


	33. A Boy and A Man (Reprise)

#### November 4th, 2018  
22:30  
Dick’s Apartment, Bludhaven

Jason comes back to Dick’s apartment and finds Roy Harper fiddling with the circuit board of Dick’s computer, which now lays in pieces on the coffee table. He jumps up when Jason walks in. 

“What the hell?” Roy asks, her voice tinged with anger, but mostly relieved. “Where the hell have you been?” 

“You don’t have to worry about the kids anymore,’ Jason says, his voice dead. Roy takes a step back, eyes searching Jason. 

“What happened,” he asks, voice soft and tinged with regret. Jason falls into it and it also grates him. He locks his jaw, trying to latch onto the anger and pull away from the pain. He wants to yell, to scream, to throw something at Roy Harper. He wants to feel the familiar pulse of anger thundering through his body and he wants to shut his brain off. 

When he turns his glare on the older boy, Roy holds under it, expression wary, but patient. 

The anger fades from Jason’s grasp and he stands in Dick’s living room, looking around and for the first time in days, wonders what the hell he’s doing here. 

He ran away. He doesn’t have a home anymore. Dick won’t stay in Gotham forever. He turns to Roy. 

“Do you wanna get out of here?” he asks suddenly, before he can allow himself to think it through. Roy is looking at him cautiously. 

“And go where,” he asks, voice guarded and tight. Jason shrugs. 

“I don’t know, anywhere. West. Or south,” he says. Tension leaves Roy’s shoulders for a moment as he considers the younger boy. 

“I had to get out of Star City,” Roy says after a moment. “It wasn’t good for me there.” 

Jason meets Roy’s eyes. “I can’t go back to Gotham,” he tells the older boy. Roy nods. 

“We can take my car,” Roy says. Jason’s jaw drops. 

“You have a _car_?” 

Roy gives him a devious smile. “What you think I took a bus from Star City?” Roy asks and Jason doesn’t answer because, _yeah, he had._

Jason and Roy grab a few amenities from Dick’s bathroom and Jason ends up stealing a few of Dick’s shirts. In the end, they have a single pitiful duffel bag of stuff between the two of them and Jason glances around Dick’s apartment. Roy had clearly cleaned up in the last few days, though he left Dick’s laptop in a mess on the coffee table. The screen was still lit up, so Jason surmises it still works, but it’s running a program he doesn’t understand. Roy doesn’t seem concerned about it, so Jason decides to leave it. He turns to the older boy, ready to leave. 

Suddenly, Roy pales, looking over Jason’s shoulder, where the glass door opens to what only the most generous realtors would call a balcony. 

Jason doesn’t even have to turn around. Dammit. He knew staying here too long was a mistake. 

“Maybe you should give us a minute,” Jason suggests, and before the last word has even left his mouth, Roy grabs the duffel bag and is out the door. 

Jason turns to the window, expecting to see Batman crouched on the rooftop of the building across the street, eerie presence lingering in the distance. 

But when he finally turns, Jason’s eyes widen at the sight. Crouching on the rail of the balcony is Bruce Wayne. 

Bruce, dressed in civilian clothing, three stories up, balancing on a guard rail because he couldn’t stand on Dick’s tiny balcony and pick the lock at the same time. 

Jason just stands as Bruce struggles to pick it at an angle, having to wait almost fifteen seconds before the lock gives and Bruce yanks open the window and hops in, cursing. 

A cold wind hits Jason and he belatedly realizes it’s freezing outside. Bruce wears only a t-shirt and jeans. 

“Shit, B,” Jason says reflexively, folding his own arms against the wind chill. Bruce manages to swing the doors shut and cut the cold air off, but as the two stare at each other, a definite coolness lingers in the air. 

Jason takes a step back; angry he had said anything. It should be Bruce who says something first, not him. 

Jason waits there for another moment and no one speaks and Jason . . . he laughs quietly to himself. What the hell was he expecting? He watched Dick and Bruce fight for years, and he thought, what? That Bruce would just follow him all the way to Bludhaven and say – 

“I’m sorry.” 

Jason’s eyes snap to meet Bruce’s. 

“I’m sorry,” the older man repeats again, slower this time. “Jason, I was angry, and – and scared. And I yelled at you when I should have talked to you.” 

Jason stands there, complete shock eating any words he could say. This was Bruce, his – his _dad._

“So, talk,” when Jason finally speaks, he hates how small his voice sounds. 

“Jason, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you that night. Didn’t let you explain or tell me what happened. When I told you to leave, I was angry, but I only meant to your bedroom. You’re my _son,_ Jason. I’m sorry I pushed you away.” 

Jason wants to focus on these words. Words like _son_ and _I’m sorry_. But something is snagging in his thoughts and he can’t let it go. 

“Does it matter?” he asks, his voice stronger now. 

Bruce pinches his face together and it is so familiar, so Bruce, he almost crosses the room and folds into his father’s arms. But he roots himself to the floor instead. 

“Does what matter?” Bruce asks, not hiding the confusion in his voice. 

“What happened,” Jason says and when Bruce still doesn’t understand right away, fresh anger rises in Jason’s stomach. “What happened on that roof. Does it matter?” Jason’s voice is hard now and Bruce stills at the sound of it. 

Jason meets Bruce’s eyes, a battle wages there. 

“Of course, it _matters,_ Jason,” Bruce responds slowly, words deliberately chosen like he means them to be ambiguous. Matters to who? To Jason? In order to be Robin? To Bruce? In order to have a son? Jason’s frustration spreads through his body as he realizes Bruce is speaking to him like he is a cornered animal, needing to be talked down. 

“Does it though?” Jason’s voice is twisted when he replies, sardonic, _angry._ “Does it matter if I actually pushed him off the roof of that building, or does it just matter that I _could_ have. If I held a gun to someone’s head,” Bruce flinches at his words. “Does it matter if I pull the trigger, or just that I might’ve? That next time you’ll wonder the same thing. Does it matter whether or not I killed him, or does it just matter that I don’t care?” 

Bruce sucks in a breath at Jason’s words and Jason can see the mask breaking. He expects anger but instead, there is sadness. Regret. Pain. 

“You don’t mean that, Jason. We – “ 

Jason’s loud harsh laugh cuts Bruce short. “I do mean that, B. That’s what I have been trying to tell you. You say you’re sorry for not listening? Well listen to me _now._ ” Jason takes a breath. 

“When I was a kid, my dad came home one night with a cut on his arm. He was _glowing._ Proud. Happier than I’d ever seen him. You know why?” Jason doesn’t pause for Bruce to answer. “He showed me. He showed me a batarang. Whatever he was doing that night, you stopped him. And he was _proud._ He didn’t even want to go to hospital to stitch up the cut. He _wanted_ the scar. And after that Bruce? He didn’t get better. He got worse. Bigger and more dangerous crimes with bigger and more dangerous criminals, only stopping when he was dead. When Two-Face killed him. Some criminals, B? They have no respect for the law or rules or other people’s lives. They’re just going to commit more crimes. They _won’t_ change.” 

Bruce listens with palpable silence, and when he does speak, his voice is low, hesitant. “Jason, that doesn’t matter. We can’t change either. We have to show we are better than that.” 

Jason tries not to growl in frustration. He’s still not _listening._

Bruce keeps talking. “People deserve a second chance.” 

“It’s not the second chance I’m arguing about,” Jason raises his voice to something close to a shout and Bruce is hardening quickly at the tone. “It’s the seventh, the sixteenth, the twenty-second!” 

Jason cuts himself off before he can say more. Their conversation is quickly devolving into a fight and Jason doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want the relationship Dick has with Bruce. He just wants Bruce to understand his point of view. 

“Do you regret it?” Jason asks in the seconds of silence that follow, his voice cracking at the end of the question and when Bruce gives him a confused look, he repeats, stronger, “do you regret making me Robin?” 

Bruce looks at him, eyes wide in horror and leaching a deep pain that almost makes Jason wish he could take the words back. 

“No,” Bruce says, suddenly and firmly. “No, God, Jason,” he continues, quieter, choking the words out. He pauses. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that.” Bruce hesitates for a moment, wanting to say more. 

“Last October,” Bruce continues, pursing his lips. “When you came back, for a moment, I did.” He whispers, meeting Jason’s eyes and Jason’s breath catches. “When we weren’t sure yet if you would wake up or pull through, I was terrified I had killed you and I swore I would never put you in danger again. I wouldn’t put you back in the suit. But you did wake up, and you got better, and it was so important to you to get back out there . . .” Bruce trails off, thinking. “Sometimes I wondered if it’s what kept you alive. And I started to worry about what would happen if I didn’t let you back.” 

“You couldn’t have kept me out of that costume, B.” Jason says. It’s the one thing he is sure of and Bruce looks at him miserably for it. “I _did_ need to get back out there. To prove to myself that I could,” Jason whispers this last part. He still remembers those months. Those achingly long months when it seemed like he would never get better. And he remembered the fire in Barbara’s eyes when the two of them made their pact: they would both get back, in whatever form their bodies allowed. 

“I have regrets,” Bruce admits. “But I don’t regret bringing you home that day, Jason,” he repeats, and Jason closes his eyes to the words, lets them swirl around him, too confused right now to sort through their meaning. He isn’t sure how much time has passed before he’s able to speak again. A minute? Ten? Twenty? 

“So, Two-Face,” Jason says when the aching in his throat dies down enough for him to talk. Bruce pinches his face together again. 

“How did you hear about that?” he asks, voice wary. 

Jason wants to tease him about tiny boxes with moving pictures, but he can’t force himself to utter the quip. Instead he just says, “the news, B. On the TV.” 

“Oh,” Bruce says after a moment. Jason studies the man. He looks tired. Truly exhausted. More tired than Jason has ever seen him. Jason bites his lip, nervous now to say what he wants to bring up. 

“Bruce, Roy and I are going to take a road trip.” It sounds so mundane when Jason says it out loud. “Just get out and clear our heads,” he continues. Part of him is screaming _What are you doing?!_ Why is Jason telling Bruce this? Bruce is going to forbid him to go, to drag him back to the Manor and lock him in his room after what he said earlier. He – 

“Roy?” Bruce repeats. 

“Harper.” Jason narrows his eyes. Did he get hit in the head? 

Bruce smiles at that, almost laughing, but the smile falls away quickly. He glances at Jason warily. “You’re sixteen Jason,” Bruce says, and Jason stiffens. 

Here it comes. Jason’s heart tightens at the thought of going back to the manor. 

Bruce’s face is now permanently pinched, and he looks like he has something sour in his mouth. Then, suddenly, it relaxes. 

“So just, check in?” Bruce says. “Every once in a while. With me or with Dick.” Bruce gives a tight smile at the surprise on Jason’s face. 

“Of course,” Jason hears himself saying before he can think it through. 

The tightness to Bruce’s smile relaxes but worry begins to gather in a faint wrinkle of his eyebrows. 

Bruce looks like he wants to say more but Jason’s heart is thundering in his ears. Before Bruce can get another word in, Jason mumbles that Roy is downstairs waiting, and he flees the apartment, too scared to glance back. 

* * *

When Jason finally finds his way out of the confusing halls of the apartment complex, okay they weren’t _that_ intricate, he just couldn’t think straight, he sees that Roy has pulled his car, an outdated sedan that has definitely seen better days, around to the front of the building. 

He slows when he sees the end of an embrace. Dick Grayson has a sad smile on his face, and he’s speaking to Roy in a voice too low for Jason to hear. Suddenly, Jason feels like an intruder, wanting to move back but his feet refuse the retreat. 

Roy spots him a moment later, raising an eyebrow at the younger boy’s hesitation. 

Dick spins around. 

The wind is knocked out of Jason as the older boy bounds over in the blink of an eye, wrapping Jason in a bear hug and not giving him air to breath. 

“Holy shit, little wing, you had us worried,” Dick says, his voice almost wet. Jason tries to push him away. 

“Dick, get off,” he says, trying for a hard voice but it mostly just comes out a breathless whine. Dick’s laugh makes Jason shake as well and his brother gives him another squeeze before relinquishing the grip and pulling away, a grin stretching across his face. Jason now has the time to take in Dick’s appearance. 

“Holy crap, Dick. You look like shit,” Jason says. He does. Dick has a bandage on his head, tinged with fresh blood, the cut beneath either still bleeding or just reopened. His eyes have deep bags under them and one of his wrists is wrapped. He holds himself stiff and awkward and very much not like Dick at all. 

Dick waves him off. “I’m fine. A building fell on me,” he says with a casual shrug. 

“A building? Fell?” Jason chokes out, an immense wave of guilt washing over him. If he hadn’t run away, if he had been there . . . 

Dick shrugs again. “It’s really nothing,” he insists, and Jason’s mouth feels dry. _You weren't there_ whispers an accusatory voice. 

“I – “ he can’t quite force the apology out. _You weren't there._ “You guys . . . You were alone – “ Jason throat closes around the words. 

A smile threatens the corners of Dick’s lips and he puts his good hand on Jason’s shoulder. 

“Actually, we _weren’t_ alone. Got some help in the end. B was – uh, well we kind of put the Two-Face thing on the back burner for a while.” _Looking for Jason._ The guilt is back and it’s a hurricane. He tries to focus on Dick’s other words, frowning at them. 

“Help?” he repeats a second before he connects the dots. “The tipster?” Jason asks, his voice pitched in surprise. 

Dick’s grin widens. “You should have seen him yelling at Bruce. Oh my god, it was amazing. I’m sure Alfred has the footage somewhere; I’ll have to get him to send it to you.” 

Both the boys laugh for a moment, but Dick’s words sink in and the smiles fade from their faces. Suddenly Jason can’t meet Dick’s eyes. 

“You’re leaving,” Dick says abruptly and it’s not a question. Jason chews his lip, still unable to glance up. 

“Little wing,” Dick says. Jason keeps his head down. “Jason.” Dick says more sharply now, and Jason’s gaze shoots up. There’s humor in Dick’s eyes. 

“Do you think I’m mad at you?” he asks, seeming close to laughter. Anger sparks in Jason’s stomach at the sight of the light amusement. 

“Aren’t you?” he snaps. _He’s probably relieved to get rid of me,_ Jason thinks bitterly. 

Dick actually laughs now, and the hot anger turns cold. “Seriously, Jay. Hello? Got fired? Ran away to college? Dropped out? We’ve met right?” Dick says and Jason finds the anger dying quickly as Dick talks. 

Jason lets a smile slip. 

“Just ah, don’t stay away too long, okay?” Dick says, his voice taking on a strange inflection that draws Jason’s eyes over. “We still need you.” 

Jason forces himself to glance away. “Dick . . . I – “ He pauses. “Dick, I can’t be Robin anymore. And I don’t _want_ to,” he adds quickly. “I just . . .” he lets the words trail off, unsure of where to go, how to explain. 

Dick grips his arms tightly. “That isn’t what I meant,” Dick smiles. “I mean, I want to come back to this, but Jason we need _you._ Call or write or send a dumb postcard. Visit. If you feel like you have to run, run. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to run away from me. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

Jason can’t speak so he just nods mutely. Dick gives him another tight squeeze that’s almost a hug. They stay like that for a while, Jason’s jaw locked shut, barely able to keep his breathing steady, and Dick anchoring him in an embrace. 

“He’ll need someone watching his back,” Jason warns when he gets his voice back. A smile plays on Dick’s lips. 

“That’s what Tim said.” 

Tim. Jason runs the name over in his mind. 

“Sounds like a smart kid.” 

“He is.” 

“Try not to be a dick this time,” Jason says casually. 

He sees the older boy glance over of the corner of his eye. 

“As long as you promise you call,” Dick matches his light tone. 

Jason rolls his eyes. “You’ll get your damn postcards, Goldie.” Dick lets out a quiet laugh and Jason smiles. When he’s ready to talk, he can call Dick. He knows he always can. 

_You don’t have to do this alone._

And he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> And that's it! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and leaving feedback! Honestly, the comments made my day whenever I received them. So truly, thank you. This is my first time posting on here, but I very much enjoyed it.
> 
> It was important to me that it isn't answered in the story whether or not Jason kills anyone, though you are free to feel either way! In the comics, Batman goes after Red Hood because he kills, but the issue between Bruce and Jason is one of philosophy and willingness, and not about past deeds (to me at least). Anyways, I wanted to focus on that conflict in this story and illustrate how Jason comes to realize his own ideals and morals and how they differ from Bruce's. 
> 
> I also wanted to explore what a more jaded Tim would have been like, losing his parents at a young age and realizing the shortcomings of Batman and Robin earlier on. He says he didn't make a choice in the last chapter, but I've always thought even if Tim didn't become Robin because Jason died, that he would still make this decision to help people and fight crime, maybe just in his own way. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope everyone enjoyed the story. I might put up a significantly shorter prequel regarding what actually happened in Ethiopia, but I'm also working on another fic, so it won't go up as quickly. Thank you thank you thank you again for all the messages and feedback, I hope my story did your patience justice.


	34. What Happened in Ethiopia

I am posting this here for anyone who may have bookmarked this story. The prequel to These Were Their Crimes, a story called What Happened in Ethiopia is now on AO3. The story will follow the events that occurred one year prior to this story, where Jason and Dick go to Ethiopia. 

Here is is if you want to read it: [What Happened In Ethiopia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22917199)

Thank you again to everyone who read and enjoyed and commented on this story. I truly loved reading every single comment and I appreciate you all so very much.


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